RICHARD   JEFFERIES 
HIS  LIFE  AND  WORK 


RICHARD   JEFFERIES 
HIS  LIFE  AND  WORK 


<iw>.-*w.  ti'-rji^ 


RICHARD    JEFFERIES 

HIS  LIFE  AND  WORK 


BY  EDWARD   THOMAS 

AUTHOR     OK 
'hORvE   S0I,ITARI;«,'    'the    heart   of    ENGLAND,     ETC. 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS 
AND  A  MAP 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN  &  COMPANY 

1909 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 


Ts 


TO 

W.   H.    HUDSON 

AUTHOR    OF     'the     NATURALIST     IN     LA    PLATA,' 

'  THE    PURPLE    LAND,'    '  GREEN    MANSIONS,' 

'nature    IN    DOWNLAND,'    ETC. 


239876 


PREFACE 

This  book  is  an  attempt  to  give  a  fuller  account  of  the  life 
and  writings  of  Richard  Jefferies  than  has  yet  been  pub- 
lished. That  '  The  Eulogy  of  Richard  Jefferies  '  by  the 
late  Walter  Besant  was  kindly,  but  unsympathetic  and 
incomplete,  cannot  be  disputed.  Mr.  Henry  S.  Salt's 
'  Richard  Jefferies  :  His  Life  and  His  Ideals,'  though  a 
much  better  book,  is  a  critical  essay,  and  leaves  the  way 
clear  for  such  a  book  as  I  have  tried  to  write.  For  over 
twenty  years  I  have  known  Jefferies'  part  of  Wiltshire,  and 
I  hope  that  I  have  got  most  of  what  the  country  people 
had  to  tell  about  him  and  his  family.  I  have  had  much 
information  and  great  kindness  from  Mrs.  Richard 
Jefferies,  Miss  Phyllis  Jefferies,  Mr.  Charles  Jefferies,  Mrs. 
Robert  T.  Billing  {nee  Sarah  Jefferies),  Mr.  Robert  T. 
BUling,  Mrs.  Harrild,  Mr.  Henry  S.  Salt,  Mr.  C.  P. 
Scott,  Mr.  C.  J.  Longman,  and  Mr.  George  Dartnell, 
author  of  a  bibliography  of  Richard  Jefferies  in  the 
Wiltshire  Archceological  Society's  Magazine,  etc.  I  desire 
also  to  thank  the  publishers  of  Richard  Jefferies'  books 
for  their  permission  to  quote  extensively  from  them  : 
Messrs.  Smith,  Elder  and  Co.,  publishers  of  '  The  Game- 
keeper at  Home,'  '  The  Amateur  Poacher,'  '  Wild  Life  in 
a  Southern  County,'  *  Round  about  a  Great  Estate,' 
*  Greene  Feme  Farm,'  and  '  Hodge  and  his  Masters  '  ; 
Messrs.  Longmans,  Green  and  Co.,  publishers  of  '  Wood 
Magic,'  '  The  Story  of  My  Heart,'  '  Red  Deer,'  '  Field  and 
Hedgerow,'  and  '  Toilers  of  the  Field  '  ;  Messrs.  Mac- 
millan  and  Co.,  publishers  of  *  The  Dewy  Mom  '  ;  Messrs. 
Chatto  and  Windus,  publishers  of  '  Nature  near  London,' 


viii  PREFACE 

*  The  Open  Air,'  and  '  Life  of  the  Fields  '  ;  and  Messrs. 
Duckworth  and  Co.,  pubUshers  of '  Bevis,' '  After  London,' 
and  '  Amarylhs  at  the  Fair  '  ;  also  the  proprietors  of 
Country  Life  and  Miss  F.  C.  Hall  for  permission  to  use  the 
photograph  of  Richard  Jefferies  as  a  young  man.  The 
following  also  have  given  me  help  :  Mr.  George  Avenell, 
Mr.  Samuel  Lane  Bondman,  Mr.  Gordon  Bottomley, 
Mr.  James  Bradford,  Mr.  A.  Coleman,  Mr.  T.  C.  Davison, 
Mr.  F.  B.  Doveton,  Mr.  Ernest  Rhys,  Miss  W.  M. 
Fentiman,  Mr.  A.  M.  Freeman,  the  Rev.  E.  H. 
Goddard,  Mr.  William  Gough,  Mr.  P.  Anderson  Graham, 
Mrs.  Arthur  Harvie,  Mr.  H.  Bottomley  Knowles,  Mr.  C.  J. 
Longman,  Mr.  S.  Morris,  Mr.  A.  Theodore  Rake,  Mrs. 
Daniel  Smith,  Mr.  H.  H.  Sturmer,  Mr.  H.  Woolford, 
and  Mr.  W.  Wright. 

igo8  EDWARD  THOMAS. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    THE   COUNTRY   OF    RICHARD   JEFFERIES              -  -  I 

II.    ANCESTRY         -                 -                 -                 -                 -  '  ^3 

III.  CHILDHOOD    AT   COATE    FARM  -  -  "34 

IV.  YOUTH    AND    EARLY    MANHOOD                -                 -  *  5° 

V.  EARLY  MANHOOD  {continued)  -                         -  -  8o 

VI.    FIRST   NOVELS                  -                 -                 -                 -  *  92 

VII.    FIRST   COUNTRY    ESSAYS              -                 -                 -  -  107 

VIII.    IN    LONDON    AND   THE   SUBURBS              -                 -  -  I  I  I 

IX.    FIRST   COUNTRY    BOOKS                               -                -  -  123 

X.    'NATURE   NEAR    LONDON'        -                -                -  -  150 

XI.  'WOOD  magic'  and  'bevis'             -            -  -  156 

XII.    ILLNESS              -                 -                 -                 -                 -  -  170 

XIII.  'THE   STORY    OF    MY    HEART'-  -  -  "177 

XIV.  'THE    LIFE   OF   THE    FIELDS'    AND    'THE   OPEN    AIR  '  -  209 
XV.    'THE    DEWY    MORN  '    -----  224 

XVL    'after   LONDON'          -                 -                 .                 .  .  254 

XVII.    'AMARYLLIS    AT   THE    FAIR*     -                 -                 -  -  263 

XVIII.    '  FIELD   AND   HEDGEROW  '    AND   OTHER   ESSAYS  -  29O 

XIX.    RECAPITULATION  -  -  -  -  "317 

BIBLIOGRAPHY                 .             .    .                .                .  .  329 

INDEX                 ......  336 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

TO    FACE   PAGE 

RICHARD    JEFFERIES    (STEREOSCOPIC     PHOTOGRAPH    PHOTO- 
GRAVURE)        -  -  -  .  .      Frontispiece 

FOREST   AND   DOWN    (DRAWN    BY   JAMES    GUTHRIE)   -  -  12 

RICHARD   JEFFERIES    AS    A    BOY  -  -  -  '         3^ 

OLD    SWINDON    CHURCH  -  -  -  -  -         62 

RICHARD   JEFFERIES    AS   A   YOUNG    MAN  -  -  "78 

JAMES    LUCKETT   JEFFERIES  -  -  -  -         86 

CO ATE    FARM  -  -  -  -  -  '134 

ELIZABETH    JEFFERIES  .....       144 

THE    'VENUS   ACCROUPIE  '    -  -  -  -  .       187 

ELIZABETH    JEFFERIES  -  -  -  -  -       2IO 

JAMES    LUCKETT   JEFFERIES  ....       240 

FANNY   JEFFERIES     -  -  -  •  -  -       270 

LETTER    OF    RICHARD   JEFFERIES    (FACSIMILE)  •  -      306 


Xl 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 
RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  COUNTRY  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

Richard  Jefferies  was  born  at  Coate  Farm,  in  the  North 
Wiltshire  hamlet  of  Coate  and  the  parish  of  Chisledon,  on 
November  6,  1848.  There  he  dwelt  for  the  greater  part 
of  the  first  thirty  years  of  his  life  ;  there  and  thereabouts, 
and  in  the  neighbouring  county  of  Gloucestershire,  dwelt 
his  ancestors  for  several,  perhaps  many,  generations.  This 
country  and  its  people  was  the  subject  of  half  his  work, 
and  the  background,  the  source,  or  the  inspiration,  of  all 
but  all  the  rest.  He,  in  his  turn,  was  the  genius,  the 
human  expression,  of  this  country,  emerging  from  it,  not  to 
be  detached  from  it  any  more  than  the  curves  of  some 
statues  from  their  maternal  stone.  He  walked  about  the 
hills  and  fields  of  it  day  and  night,  in  pursuit  of  sport,  of 
health,  of  society,  of  solitude,  of  joy,  of  the  dearest  objects 
of  his  soul ;  and  though  he  left  it  never  to  return,  yet 
three  times  before  he  died  he  lived  in,  or  in  sight  of,  country 
not  unlike  it — at  Brighton,  at  Crowborough,  and  at 
Goring. 

It  is  a  beautiful,  a  quiet,  an  unrenowned,  and  a  most 
visibly  ancient  land.  The  core  and  essence  of  it  are  the 
Downs,  which  lie  south  and  east  and  west  of  Coate. 
Northward  is  Swindon,  where  Jefferies  lived  two  years, 

I 


2  THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

and  Wootton  Bassett,  Purton,  Malmesbury,  Cirencester, 
and  Fairford — all  of  which  he  knew,  with  their  surrounding 
fields  ;  but  to  reach  them  was  to  leave  the  Downs  for  the 
rich,  sluggish,  dairy  country  of  elms,  that  is  seldom 
roused  to  the  energy  of  hiUs.  Fair  as  that  part  of  Wilt- 
shire is,  it  has  left  few  marks  upon  his  books  ;  and  even  in 
his  youthful  chapters  on  the  Swindon  neighbourhood, 
where  he  might  have  thought  it  his  business  to  set  his 
affection  aside,  he  seldom  betrays  much  knowledge  of  the 
northward  land,  of  whose  people  Aubrey  wrote  that  they 
'  speak  drawling,'  are  '  dull  and  heavy  of  spirits,'  '  feed 
chiefly  on  milk  meats,  which  hurts  their  inventions,'  are 
'  melancholy,  contemplative,  malicious,  by  consequence 
whereof  come  more  lawsuits — at  least  double  those  in 
the  southern  parts,'  and  are  '  more  apt  to  be  fanatic' 
Roughly  speaking,  the  Wiltshire  and  Berkshire  Canal,  in  its 
course  from  near  Wantage,  past  Ufftngton,  Stratton  St. 
Margaret,  Swindon,  Wootton  Bassett,  and  Dauntsey,  was 
Jefferies'  northern  boundary.  That  boundary  at  least 
in  winter  he  loved,  for  the  frosts  turned  it  into  an  incom- 
parable track  for  his  skates,  and  it  is  as  a  skater  only  that 
he  is  respectfully  remembered  in  those  parts.  The  canal 
has  now  relapsed  into  barbarism  ;  its  stiffened  and  weedy 
waters  are  stirred  only  by  the  moorhen,  who  walks  more 
than  she  swims  across  them. 

For  Jefferies  at  Coate,  the  summer  sun  rose  over  White- 
horse  Hill,  eight  miles  off  in  Berkshire,  with  the  ancient 
entrenchment  above  and  the  westward-ramping  white 
horse  below ;  and  to  reach  the  hill  meant  a  long,  lonely 
walk  on  the  Ridgeway  through  the  high  corn-land  and  past 
Wayland  Smith's  cave,  or  along  the  more  frequented 
parallel  road  below,  through  Wanborough,  Little  Hinton, 
Bishopston,  Ashbury,  and  Compton  Beauchamp.  At 
Bishopston  stood  the  old  mansion — used  as  a  Grammar 
School — which  he  has  celebrated  in  '  Wild  Life  in  a 
Southern  County,'  in  '  An  Extinct  Race,'  and  in  his  early 
chapter  on  the  London  and  Faringdon  road.  At  Hinton 
and   Bishopston   there   are   fine   farmhouses   with   lime- 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES      3 

trees ;  at  Ashbury,  also,  one  among  trees  and  oats,  built 
of  stone,  with  many  square  windows  and  handsome 
chimneys;  and  one  where  the  by-road  goes  to  Longcott  and 
Shrivenham.  North  of  this  road  is  the  flat  land,  which  has 
so  many  elms  bordering  so  many  small  fields  that  from  a 
distance  it  seems  one  wood.  South,  and  close  at  hand,  are 
the  Downs — the  solitary,  arable  slopes,  the  solid  beech 
clumps,  the  coursing  and  racing  turf  of  Ashdown  and 
Lambourn.  Always  high  up,  the  Ridgeway  goes  north- 
eastward over  the  corn,  with  few  traces  of  living  men  except 
the  Oxford  Steam-Ploughing  Company's  engines,  har- 
boured, perchance,  amidst  heaps  of  coal  and  the  chalk-land 
flowers — hop-trefoil,  saw-wort,  scabious,  purple  gentian, 
and  poppy.  Wayland  Smith's  cave  lies  on  the  left  going 
north-east,  about  thirty  water-worn  and  mossy  sarsens, 
some  roughly  hewTi,  three  upright,  with  a  superincumbent 
fourth,  hidden  among  beeches  and  starved  elders.  Beyond, 
the  old  road  is  to  be  seen  going  rough  and  white  up  White- 
horse  Hill,  nicked  by  the  entrenchment,  and  with  it  even 
the  weary  feet  must  go  if  it  is  summer  and  the  hour  a 
spacious  and  windless  twilight.  It  leads  to  yet  another 
camp,  Letcombe  Castle,  two  or  three  miles  south  of 
Wantage,  farther  than  which  a  walker  from  Coate  who 
had  to  return  the  same  day  would  not  be  likely  to  travel. 

Going  south-east  instead  of  north-east  from  Coate,  a 
similar  limit  is  reached  at  Lambourn.  From  Wan- 
borough,  through  Totterdown,  to  Baydon,  the  road  is  the 
Ermine  Street  on  its  way  from  Cirencester,  through 
Cricklade,  to  Sheen,  and  crosses  the  Ridgeway  at  Totter- 
down. For  the  ear  at  least  Baydon  is  Badon  Mount. 
This  is  pure  down-land  :  the  breasted  hiUs  curving  as  if 
under  the  influence  of  a  great  melody  ;  the  beeches  lining 
the  Roman  road,  and  sheltering  a  gipsy  camp  among 
harebells,  sweet  basil,  and  trefoil,  which  the  grasshopper 
also  loves.  Lambourn  itself  is  a  fair,  small  town,  with  a 
cross,  of  which  the  shaft  is  as  graceful  and  light  as  the 
beeches  in  the  churchyard.  It  is  the  hub  of  many  little 
roads  that  lead  out  among  the  curving  expanses  of  pasture 

I — 2 


4  THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

and  corn-land  ;  the  tumuli,  in  one  place  seven  together, 
give  a  solemn  tone  to  so  much  sweetness  and  space. 
Between  Baydon  and  Aldbourne,  and  about  Sugar  Hill, 
the  country  is  more  park-like.  There  is  a  green  and 
hedgeless  turf,  with  knots  and  trains  of  beeches  and  thorns, 
and  many  little  undulations  and  barbaric,  winding  tracks, 
startled  and  sundered  by  the  straight  Roman  road. 
Thence  the  eyes  enjoy  Martinsell  Hill,  gentle  and  large, 
above  standing  and  reaped  corn  and  the  trees  of  Ald- 
bourne. The  road  from  Baydon  to  Aldbourne  is  notable 
for  its  passage  through  one  of  the  finest  hollows  in  the 
Downs.  The  unbroken  undulations  are  long,  and  the 
mind  floats  with  them  and  sleeps  in  the  melody  which  they 
make  :  there  is  grass,  mangolds,  wheat  in  leaning  shocks, 
solid  beech  clusters,  and,  far  away,  on  the  edge  of  the 
bowl,  Liddington  clump  ;  nor  is  there  a  house  visible 
among  the  trackways,  the  haystacks,  the  sheep,  and  the 
corn,  this  side  of  the  embowered  Aldbourne  church  tower. 
More  south  and  less  east  from  Coate,  the  Swindon  and 
Hungerford  road  goes  through  Liddington  to  Aldbourne, 
again  over  the  Downs,  with  four  barrows  on  one  hand, 
making  different  harmonies  together  as  the  vision  shifts, 
and  on  the  other  the  rectangular  imprints  of  a  British 
village  at  Upper  Upham.  Untrodden  but  indelible  old 
roads,  worn  by  hoofs  and  the  naked  feet  and  the  traiHng 
staves  of  long-dead  generations,  cross  and  join  one  another 
over  the  short  grass  of  the  chalk  slopes.  Aldbourne  is 
white-washed,  thatched,  and  tiled,  with  many  turnings, 
and  the  traveller  feels  always  as  if  he  is  in  someone's 
yard,  because  the  houses,  with  their  flowers  and  open  doors, 
look  so  frankly  on  the  road ;  as  at  Ogbourne  St.  George, 
close  by,  old  millstones  are  used  as  paving  for  paths.  The 
bells  of  the  neighbourhood  were  once  cast  here.  The 
village  was  famous  from  Aubrey's  to  Jefferies'  day  for 
rabbits  ;  and  between  here  and  Ogbourne  St.  George  are 
Chase  Woods  and  Aldbourne  Chase,  where,  in  Jefferies' 
youth,  they  found  a  cannon-ball  that  had  lain  there  since 
the  brush  between   Rupert  and  Essex,  before   the  first 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES       5 

battle  of  Newbury.  From  Aldbourne  is  a  good  walk 
over  the  Downs  to  Marlborough  by  Stock  Lane,  on  a  steep- 
banked  track,  with  eyebright  flowers  underfoot  and  among 
wayfaring  trees,  in  sight  of  the  oak  and  fir  and  hazel 
of  Aldbourne  Chase  in  long,  gentle  hollows.  Hereby 
three  deep  tracks  mount  southward  to  Marlborough,  and 
presently  cross  the  remains  of  a  Roman  road  that  goes 
straight,  though  grassy,  from  Ogboume  to  Mildenhall. 
Thatched  Mildenhall  was  a  Roman  station,  as  the  turf 
proclaims,  and  called  Cunetio.  At  one  time  the  children 
there  used  often  to  pay  their  school- fees  in  Roman  coin. 
Now  the  slow  sheep  go  past  the  barley-fields  to  Marl- 
borough Fair,  and  the  tired  shepherd  leans  on  his  crooked 
ash  and  says  once  to  his  dusty  flock,  'Coom  along — coop  !' 
Traveller's  joy  and  white  bryony  climb  about  the  thorns. 

At  Common  Head,  a  mile  south-east  of  Coate,  the 
Roman  road,  leaving  Ermine  Street  at  Wanborough 
Nythe,  crosses  the  Hungerford  road  on  its  way  south  to 
Mildenhall,  through  Savernake  Forest  (as  often  called 
Marlborough  Forest  by  those  living  on  the  Marlborough 
side  of  it),  to  Winchester.  It  crosses  the  Ridgeway  near 
Chisledon,  under  the  hill  that  is  crowned  by  the  camp, 
or  *  castle,'  and  the  beech-clump  of  Liddington.  Between 
it  and  the  tiny  colonies  of  Woodsend  and  Snap  are  more 
prints  of  British  settlements  on  the  turf,  with  tumuli  and 
earthworks  that  make  the  earth  look  old,  like  the  top  bar 
of  a  stile,  carved  by  saunterers,  bored  by  wasps,  grooved 
and  scratched  and  polished  again,  or  like  a  schoolboy's 
desk  that  has  blunted  a  hundred  ingenious  knives.  Recent 
theory  suggests  that  the  dark  Iberic  people  found  a  refuge 
in  Wiltshire  from  the  Celts,  who,  invaded  in  their  turn, 
held  out  long  in  the  same  land  against  the  Saxons. 
Jefferies  himself  finds  Celtic  traces  in  the  place-names  and 
surnames  of  the  neighbourhood.  From  near  Woodsend, 
a  little  way  off  the  Roman  road,  and  within  Aldbourne 
Chase,  there  is  a  spread  of  Downs,  Inkpen  supreme  on  the 
south-east,  Martinsell  woody  and  dark  on  the  south,  the 
Devizes   hUls   south-west.     Thence   there   is   a   pleasant 


6  THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

furzy  descent  into  Ogboume  St.  George.  Ogboume, 
thatched  and  irregular,  with  a  bridge  over  the  summer-dry 
bed  of  the  winterboume,  is  in  an  ash-tree  country  ;  and 
most  beautiful  in  late  sunlight,  against  a  calm,  rich  sky, 
are  the  green  breasts  of  the  westward  hilJs,  or  in  a  still, 
cold  summer  night  under  a  full  moon  amidst  little,  hard 
white  clouds  like  rice.  Winding  with  the  River  Og,  the 
road  forsakes  the  Roman  way  and  enters  Marlborough 
town,  with  its  dormered  and  gabled  High  Street,  long, 
wide,  and  discreet,  and,  though  genial,  obviously  an  entity 
which  the  visitor  can  know  little  of.  It  has  been  a  royal 
residence  ;  it  stood  a  siege  in  the  Civil  War  ;  its  prehistoric 
existence  seems  announced  by  the  sarsen  stone  that  stands 
at  one  end  of  the  High  Street.  It  is  the  '  Overboro  '  and 
'  Fleeceborough  '  of  Jefferies.  The  Kennet  runs  through, 
to  be  joined  at  Mildenhall  by  the  Og.  The  Downs  and 
Savernake  Forest  dominate  the  town.  It  is  but  a  place 
at  the  edge  of  the  forest.  Though  its  nearest  (northern) 
edge  is  not  much  less  than  ten  miles  from  Coate,  the 
forest  was  well  within  Jefferies'  reach  ;  he  often  walked 
there  and  back,  spending  the  whole  summer  day  out  of 
doors,  liking  the  place  for  its  beauty,  its  solitude,  and  its 
many  uncertain  memories.  It  was  the  subject  of  some 
of  his  earliest  description  ;  it  reappears  in  several  books. 
Once,  it  seems  that  in  a  severe  winter  the  stags  broke  out 
of  the  forest  and  roamed  north,  and  one  was  shot  in  his 
own  immediate  country.  From  Mildenhall,  south-east- 
wards along  the  Roman  road  or  the  course  of  it,  to 
Crofton  is  six  miles,  and  it  is  almost  all  forest,  so  that 
its  mere  size — if  it  needed  such  an  auxiliary — makes 
Savernake  respectable.  Its  trees  are  finely  grown  and 
grouped,  large  and  numerous  enough  to  make  it  venerable  ; 
heroic,  too,  and  able  to  sustain  without  injury  the  tremen- 
dous trifling  column  to  the  glory  of  a  Marquis  of  Ailesbury, 
of  Lord  Bute,  and  of  God.  I  say  heroic,  because  the 
muscular,  smooth  beeches,  moulded  like  the  flanks  and 
limbs  of  immortal  beauty,  and  the  oaks  that  perform  great 
feats  in   holding  out  long,   snaky,   horizontal  branches. 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES     7 

overgrown  with  moss  and  tufted  polypody,  and  the  dense, 
very  old  thorns,  shapely,  or  twisted  in  rigid  agonies, 
seem  worthy  of  an  heroic  life — of  the  life  of  Mr.  Doughty's 
British  princes,  Caradoc,  Beichiad,  Togodumnos ;  of 
women  like  Embla  and  Herfryd  and  Boudicca  ;  of  bards 
like  Carvilios.  They  and  their  chariots  alone  should 
press  the  mossy,  golden  turf ;  they  alone  would  not  be 
unworthy  of  the  great  depths  below  the  forest  roof  that 
seem  to  be  submerged  in  time.  In  one  part  of  the  forest 
the  moss  at  the  base  of  every  oak  actually  suggests  a  tide 
that  has  risen  so  high,  and  left  this  green  sign,  but  left 
no  life  behind  except  the  hosts  of  wood-pigeons  and  the 
crow,  the  magpie,  the  jay,  and  the  green  woodpecker,  that 
are  always  crying  about  these  desolate  palaces  of  I  know 
not  what  lovely  powers.  It  is  beautiful  yet,  and  at  even- 
ing, like  the  sea  in  a  twitching  calm  of  thin,  disappearing 
dark  lines,  offers  us  the  inexplicable  sorrows  and  unsus- 
pected consolations  of  music,  building  for  us  a  new  earth, 
a  new  heaven,  and  a  new  hell. 

Still  another  way  to  Marlborough — and  a  better,  because 
it  can  only  be  travelled  on  foot — is  to  climb  Ladder  Hill 
along  the  western  edge  of  Burderop  Woods,  and  to  go 
straight  for  Barbury  Castle  and  its  attendant  beech- 
clump,  due  south  upon  the  summit  of  Hackpen  Hill. 
East  is  the  curve  of  Liddington  Hill,  the  smooth,  bare, 
uninhabited  turf  ;  north-east  the  bosom  of  Wanborough 
Hills  ;  a  little  east  of  Barbury,  on  Smeathe's  Ridge, 
trees  that  arrange  themselves  like  a  huge  ruined  castle  ; 
and  more  east  a  long,  thin  line  of  trees  that  seem  Titanic 
wayfarers  trooping  dejectedly  ;  and  at  the  feet  of  these 
related  hills  is  aU  one  level  land  of  corn  and  roots,  and 
tinkling  sheep,  and  ricks.  The  road  traverses  this  plain, 
and  begins  to  rise  beyond  Mudgell,  crossing  the  Ridge- 
way  close  to  the  disused  Burderop  race-course.  Tumuli 
and  earthworks  lie  on  the  rising  ground,  on  this  hand 
and  that,  so  commonly  that  the  youthful  Jefferies  found 
it '  alive  with  the  dead.'  On  Barbury  Hill  we  are  among 
harebell,  rock-rose,  scabious,  and  trefoil  blossoms.     The 


8  THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

*  Castle '  lies  on  the  right,  a  double-mounded  camp, 
where  it  is  thought  that  Cedric  and  Ceawlin  routed  the 
Britons  in  the  sixth  centun*  ;  and  beside  it  the  nineteen 
harassed  beeches,  one  dead,  in  a  clump  that  is  to  be  seen 
for  many  miles,  from  Uffington  and  from  the  hills  above 
Oxford.  The  duU,  soft  sheep-bells  interweave  their  tink- 
lings  among  the  tumuli  and  in  the  shade  of  the  big 
mounds  of  beech  that  look  so  dark  and  massy  from  the 
lands  below.  It  was  over  these  hills  that  Margaret,  in 
'  Greene  Feme  Farm,'  wandered  with  Geoffrey,  and  at 
night  found  rest  only  in  the  Devil's  Den,  near  F\-field,  or 
the  kistvaen,  on  Manton  Down,  near  Rockley.  Marl- 
borough is  reached  by  entering  the  Wootton  Bassett  and 
Marlborough  road,  which  passes  Marlborough  Common. 

Best  of  all  the  Do\\ti  ways  is  the  Ridgeway,  joining  it 
where  it  crosses  the  Hungerford  road  or  near  Chisledon. 
Jefferies  knew  it  well ;  this  above  all  others  would  take 
him  past '  hill  after  hill  and  plain  after  plain '  in  silence  and 
solitude.  It  passes  under  Liddington  Hill,  %\*ith  little 
risings  and  fallings  through  the  open  corn-land,  but, 
climbing  almost  to  Barbury  Castle,  it  keeps  a  great  height 
along  the  top  of  Hackpen  Hill,  paving  itself  with  hare- 
bell, silverweed,  eyebright  and  bartsia  ;  now  east,  now 
west,  now  south,  it  commands  vast  soaring  and  diving 
grounds  for  the  delighted  eyes,  among  solitary  slopes  of 
green  and  white  hills,  of  turf  and  cloud.  Moles,  journeying 
often  in  the  grassy  ruts,  turn  up  a  fine  dark  soil  from  above 
the  chalk.  Tumuli,  earthworks,  and  ancient  settlements, 
and  flocks,  of  '  grey  wethers  '  or  sarsen  stones,  mark  the 
side  of  the  road  until  it  dips  to  East  Kennett,  across  the 
Bath  Road,  and  on  to  Alton  Priors  over  Wansdyke.  which 
it  intersects  at  Furze  Hill.  Wansdyke.  that  stupendous 
highway  and  barrier,  running  from  near  Heddington  Wick 
over  Morgan's  Hill,  by  Shepherd's  Shore,  over  Tann  Hill 
to  Savemake  Forest,  makes  a  rough  southern  boundary 
to  the  country  of  Jefferies,  except  that  it  excludes  part  of 
the  forest.  If  the  Ridgeway  is  left  on  Avebury  Down, 
another  grassy  track  leads  into  Avebury  ;  and  most  pleas- 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  RICIL\RD  JEFFERIE^ 

ant  is  the  descent  aju  -  -^  ^  :   -         -        -    - 
with  sheep's-bit  or  to- 

Avebury,  through    :    r  ;   ::.-  I>owik  w*.  -      _ 

his  early  arch?^ '- ;  :y.     What  tr 

at  Avebuiy  T  .aiws,  hat  th 

i=    -           -  :       .  :  -V— if  it  7 


QiViIic. 

sarsen 
that  rr 

Mrr. 

^'X~'^' — 

wav    : : 


Benets,  and  ^:_::T^Tr     1t_i    "    '-".-  -:    i      ' 

peace,   h-ir  7    ^r     r.   iisly   v  :      rr  -     r         f 

scrolls    x'r.r      r         -    —^     ._  -^    __  .   _         . 

comrr.:---     i.r    :;  :^  -    '\- 

gip>sy  tombs,  "        :      —:        r        " 

to  suggest  a   c^--_:Zr  I      :    :  Lr.    _r 

imwounded  men.     J^-.  -    ~     r.   1-    - 

Aubrey's  praise  c:  -:-    1-  _rr.   ::  '    _> 

shire,'  and  tried  i.   r„    .   il_:  -       "  7:  '      i   r 

was  fought  near  by  in  S23.     E 

goes  south-westward  betwrfr.  7 :   ^ 

bedstraw,   and  yarrow     r :  _r  m.     V.~„^:cV;: 

there  is  a  slope,  it  is  tTT"   77  d  nsed  or  not. 

The  telegraph-posts  g-:  entnre 

in  their  p^-->*- - 

A   crawiir: 
B7        - 

road  and  :  ." 

sainfoin  ;  :  .7 

the  midst  vi  _^.-.r^   _:_ 

wind  Wows  thr  r:  ,   rain.     Here.  .      , 


10         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

the  Down  roads,  grows  the  meadow  crane's-bill,  which 
Jefferies  loved — a  flowerwhose  purple  has  wedded  passion's 
opulence  and  thought's  tranquillity.  Broad  Hinton,  the 
next  village  on  this  road,  fills  a  considerable  space  in 
Jefferies*  earliest  descriptions;  he  mentions  the  small  white 
horse  on  the  do\Miside  near,  the  church,  the  mansion 
which  its  owner  burned  to  save  from  the  Parliament  in 
the  Civil  War,  and  the  legendary  treasure  in  a  well  close  by. 
The  church  was  described  again  in  an  early  anonymous 
paper  in  the  Graphic.  (At  'The  Bull'  here  a  labourer 
says  that  a  farmer  at  Braden  still  bakes  lardy  cakes  once 
a  fortnight,  and  loaves  of  which  four  would  cover  the 
inn  table.)  Broad  Hinton  Church  is  off  the  main  road, 
but  is  on  a  track  which  runs  from  Bincknoll  Camp  south- 
ward until  the  white  road  takes  its  place  just  before 
Avebury  Temple.  For  a  large  part  of  its  way  it  runs 
alongside  of  a  winterbourne  that  rises  in  Uffcott  Down 
and  feeds  the  Kennet.  This  track  should  be  followed 
from  Broad  Hinton  churchyard,  whereby  it  enters  the 
fields  near  beeches  and  a  moated  farm,  and  then  straight 
over  pink  and  white  yarrow  flowers,  through  the  wheat 
to  Winterbourne  Bassett  church  tower,  that  stands 
among  elms  and  beeches,  thatched  long  barns  and  stacks 
and  the  marks  of  rased  buildings  ;  a  stone  circle  lies  within 
a  mile.  Just  beyond  the  church  a  farmhouse  has  a  pea- 
cock as  a  weathercock.  Berwick  Bassett  Church,  on  the 
same  path,  is  but  a  mile  beyond,  small  and  low,  with 
mellow  tiles  and  a  little  spire  upon  its  tower — the  whole 
dwarfed  by  great  barns  and  ash-trees.  Winterbourne 
Monkton,  where  the  track  joins  the  road,  is  nearly  all 
thatched,  and  the  walls  are  made  largely  of  rude  pieces  of 
sarsen.  Avebury  Down  and  the  '  grey  wethers '  rise 
close  on  the  east,  domed  Windmill  Hill  and  its  tumuli  on 
the  west.  Wansdyke  is  not  far  south,  reached  past 
Silbury  Hill  and  Beckhampton,  and  a  rookery  that  is 
perched  a  mile  from  any  house  in  a  wood  of  elm,  ash,  oak, 
and  fir. 
A  good  and  a  long  way  back  to  Coate  is  to  go  north- 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES     ii 

west  from  Winterbourne  Monkton  to  the  tiny  church  of 
St.  Peter's,  Highway,  near  Hilmarton,  it  and  its  weedy 
and  not  populous  churchyard  half  lost  among  thatched 
white  cottages.  From  there  to  Swindon  is  a  footpath 
through  Clevancy,  Clyffe  Pypard,  Broad  Town,  under 
BincknoU  '  Castle,'  through  Elcombe,  following,  it  may 
well  be,  in  places,  the  old  pilgrim's  way  that  led  past  Holy 
Cross  at  Swindon,  past  Elcombe,  Bushton,  Clyffe  Pypard, 
and  Studley,  on  its  way  to  the  shrine  and  well  of  St. 
Anne's-in-the-Wood  at  Bridlington,  in  Somerset.  All  the 
way  this  path  looks  up  at  a  secondary  terrace  of  the 
Downs,  and  sees  the  steep  slopes  which  are  cloven  deep 
by  ancient  ways,  or  sometimes  clothed  in  beech,  and  at 
BincknoU  heaped  into  a  promontory  carved  by  a  camp, 
where  the  life  that  flourishes  now  is  chiefly  that  of  the 
chalk-land  flowers — marjoram,  sweet  basil,  field-gentian, 
rock-rose,  and  thistle — and  the  wayfaring  tree,  the  hazel 
and  the  blackthorn.  At  Clyffe  there  is  a  church,  a  manor- 
house,  a  pond,  and  a  chestnut-tree  ;  a  hanging  beech- 
wood  above,  ash-trees  below.  At  Broad  Town  and  Binck- 
noU the  way  is  through  barley.  The  beeches  and  the  good 
houses  follow,  of  Bassett  Down,  Saltrop,  and  Elcombe. 
Grey  Saltrop  House,  among  ash  and  beech  on  the  slope, 
has  parted  with  many  that  rest  in  Wroughton  Church  ; 
its  smoke  goes  up  in  front  of  a  storied  cedar  sweetly  of 
a  still  evening.  At  Elcombe  one  of  the  most  lovable 
of  the  roads  from  the  hills  to  the  elm-country  descends, — 
a  broad  strip  of  grass  on  either  side,  and,  upon  the  grass, 
not  too  many  flowery  cottages,  with  Elcombe  Hall  at 
the  top  and  at  the  bottom  a  cold,  large  farmhouse,  and  its 
yews  and  mounting-steps  by  the  gate.  Wroughton  Church 
is  on  the  wooded  hill  above  ;  beyond,  also  on  the  hill,  is 
Old  Swindon,  and  below  it  New  Swindon — noisy,  new, 
cheap,  and  Liberal,  full  of  every  accent,  and  on  market- 
days  rural  with  cattle  and  country  carts.  Swindon  is  the 
'  Kingsbury  '  and  the  '  Latten  '  of  Jefferies.  He  described 
the  Great  Western  Railway  works  there  for  the  North 
Wilts  Herald  as  a  youth,  for  Fraser's  as  a  man,  both  times 


12         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

as  a  journalist.  From  the  London  side,  Swindon  is  a 
woody  hill,  with  a  spire  and  the  pepper-pot  of  a  Corn 
Exchange.  It  commands  a  fine  country  from  this  hill. 
North-west  is  Highworth  Hill,  which  should  be  seen  when 
the  red  dawn  is  elm-barred,  for  it  is  precipitous,  and  of  a 
rich  blue  and  romantic  texture  unlike  land,  water,  or 
cloud.  Due  south  is  Barbury,  and  its  beeches  and  a 
meaning  line  of  trees  south-east  of  it.  North-east  are  the 
trees  of  Lydiard  Tregoze  and  Purton,  beyond  the  smoke 
of  New  Swindon.  South-east,  from  the  footpath  to  Coate, 
are  Liddington  Hill  and  the  breasted  Downs  above 
Wanborough.  This  path  enters  the  fields  by  the  lime- 
shaded  road — with  old,  mossy,  slated,  dependent  houses, 
high  walls,  and  elms — that  leads  to  The  Lawn,  the  home 
of  the  Goddards,  lords  of  the  manor,  a  heavy,  rectangular, 
mellow,  but  unimaginative  house  that  has  elm,  wych-elm, 
poplar,  and  oak  about  it,  and  swerving  reaches  of  grass 
and  a  dark,  reedy  water  below.  The  Old  Swindon  church 
of  Holy  Rood  adjoins  the  house  ;  Richard  Jefferies  was 
christened  there  early  in  1849.  Only  the  chancel  remains, 
the  rest  having  been  dismantled  when  it  was  superseded 
by  a  large  Gilbert  Scott  church  better  suited  to  the  town. 
The  chancel  is  crowded  with  odds  and  ends  of  the  dis- 
mantling ;  a  faded  hatchment  and  the  startling  inscrip- 
tion, In  Ccelo  Quies ;  memorials  of  Goddards,  Homes, 
Neates,  Viletts,  B rinds,  an  Aubrey.  Under  elms  and 
nettles  are  announced  certain  dead  Goddards,  Coventrys, 
Noads,  Tinsons,  Hardings,  Homes,  Broadways,  Lawrences. 
The  pillars  of  the  old  nave  stand,  but  enveloped  in  ivy  ; 
there  is  a  path  of  tombs  betwixt  them.  The  only  sound  is 
the  cracking  shell  of  a  snail  which  a  thrush  hammers  on 
a  gravestone.  Aubrey  has  described  the  place  as  it  was  ; 
the  youthful  Jefferies  moralized  among  its  ruins  in  a 
chapter  on  '  Ancient  Swindon.'  Below  the  churchyard 
wall  is  a  grassy  depression,  now  a  fowl-run,  once  the  Old 
Swindon  mill-pond  ;  close  by  was  the  mill  worked  by 
James  Luckctt  Jefferies,  Richard's  great-uncle. 

The  country  which  Jefferies  knew  intimately  is  of  rather 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES     13 

narrower  limits  than  that  crossed  by  these  roads  and 
paths.  It  is  particularly  the  village  of  Coate,  his  father's 
farm  of  thirty  or  forty  acres,  and  the  neighbouring  farms 
of  Day  House  and  Snodshill ;  the  Reservoir  and  the  brook 
that  runs  out  of  it  to  the  north,  past  Wanborough  Nythe  ; 
Burderop  Woods  ;  the  villages  of  Wanborough,  Liddington, 
Badbury,  Chisledon,  Wroughton,  Broad  Hinton,  Ogbourne 
and  Aldbourne,  with  the  Downs  and  scattered  farms  be- 
tween. This  country  is  composed  largely  of  the  Downs, 
running  north-east  and  south-west  from  Uffington 
'  Castle  '  to  Hackpen  Hill.  At  the  feet  of  these  hills  are 
Wanborough  Plain,  Chisledon  Plain,  and  similar  corn-land, 
more  or  less  level  and  open,  but  in  places  cleft  by  almost 
perpendicular  coombes,  as  at  Liddington  and  Chisledon  ; 
a  wedge  of  this  land  makes  a  pass  through  the  Downs,  of 
triangular  shape,  Liddington,  Barbury,  and  Ogbourne 
at  the  angles,  Dray  cot  Foliatt  in  the  midst.  On  this 
plain  and  at  the  edge  of  it,  dominating  much  lower  lands, 
are  the  churches  of  Wanborough,  Chisledon,  Wroughton, 
and  Broad  Hinton,  and  the  house  at  Burderop.  The 
plain  breaks  down  to  the  lower  lands  abruptly  in  many 
places,  as  below  Broad  Hinton  and  Wroughton  and 
Burderop,  and  on  these  steeps  are  most  of  the  woods — 
Bincknoll,  Ouidhampton,  Saltrop,  and  Burderop  Woods. 
At  the  feet  of  the  woods  the  land  is  a  fertile  clay,  producing 
some  of  the  finest  grass  and  cattle — '  of  good  note  in 
Smithfield,'  says  Aubrey.  Coate  Farm,  at  the  feet  of 
Burderop  Woods,  is  on  this  clay,  and  the  land  is  all 
meadow. 

The  Downs  in  this  immediate  country  of  Jefferies  are 
among  the  highest,  most  spacious,  and  most  divinely 
carved  in  rolling  ridge  and  hollowed  flank  ;  and  their 
summits  commune  with  the  finest  summits  in  the  more 
southerly  Downs — Inkpen,  Martinsell,  Tann  Hill.  Lid- 
dington Hill  and  its  '  castle,'  a  camp  of  a  single  but  very 
deep  fosse,  was  a  chief  haven  to  Jefferies.  As  he  took 
deep  breaths  of  the  air  about  its  harebell,  eyebright,  clover, 
bedstraw,  scabious,  and  fine  grass,  his  brain  was  furrowed 


14         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

and  sown  with  the  thoughts  that  ripened  in  '  The  Story  of 
My  Heart.'  Hither,  too,  came  Felise,  the  beautiful  lover 
in  '  The  Dewy  Mom,'  when  she  began  to  love.  At  the 
top  and  in  the  camp  are  the  same  flowers,  and  some 
windy  thorns  and  furze  ;  and  near  by  the  '  folly  '  of 
twenty-one  lean  beeches — in  growth  like  firs — and  the 
stump  of  another,  which  make  a  landmark  over  half  the 
county.  Below,  to  the  south,  the  charlock-yellow  or 
bean-grey  or  corn-coloured  squares  of  the  arable  extend 
to  the  woods  and  the  far-off  dark  green  elmy  country  of 
Cricklade  ;  a  flock  of  sheep  seems  to  be  blown  along,  or 
to  flow  as  upon  a  stream.  East,  south,  and  west  flint- 
diggers'  cartways,  old  roads,  and  hares'  paths  lead  over 
the  Downs.  In  the  rarely-seen  hamlets  of  the  dusty 
corn-land  or  the  moist  vale  are  the  houses  of  the  men 
Jefferies  knew — farmers  and  labourers,  slow  of  speech, 
more  used  to  deeds  whether  at  work  or  play.  Back- 
swording  died  late  hereabouts  ;  and  you  may  still  see  an 
old  man's  shins  all  ridgy  from  the  kicks  earned  in  matches 
at  straightforward  kicking  with  heavy  boots  against 
unarmed  shins  ;  they  drank  devoutly,  and  so  helped  to 
sharpen  Richard  Jefferies'  nerves  and  to  wear  his  body  out 
before  he  was  forty  ;  but  they  did  more  for  him  than  that, 
these  men  of  a  different  blood  from  the  townsman's, 
though  they  have  not  given  up  their  secrets  to  those  who 
believe  they  have  none.  After  their  bread  and  cheese  at 
'  The  Bull '  or  '  The  Plough,'  they  will  sit  at  their  second  or 
third  pint  without  a  word  and  without  the  activity  to  light 
a  pipe  for  half  an  hour  ;  yet  one  of  the  same  race  will  say 
of  Jefferies  that  he  lay  on  his  back  and  dreamed  when  he 
should  have  been  helping  his  family — which  is,  after  all, 
but  one  dreamer's  uncharitablencss  to  another  in  a  world 
of  dreams. 

Jefferies  often  thought  of  the  sea  upon  these  hills. 
The  eye  sometimes  expects  it.  There  is  something  oceanic 
in  their  magnitude,  their  ease,  their  solitude — above  all,  in 
their  liquid  forms,  that  combine  apparent  mobility  with 
placidity,  and  in  the  vast  playground  which  they  provide 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES     15 

for  the  shadows  of  the  clouds.  They  are  never  abrupt, 
but,  flowing  on  and  on,  make  a  type  of  infinity.  A  troop, 
a  clump,  or  a  sprinl-ding  of  trees,  a  little  wood,  a  house, 
squares  of  wheat  or  newly-ploughed  land,  a  long  white 
road,  cannot  detract  from  them — not  even  when  the  air 
is  so  clear  that  all  sounds  and  sights  and  smells  are  bright 
and  have  a  barb  that  plants  them  deep,  and  the  hard 
black  rooks  slide  in  crystal  air  under  the  blue.  In 
winter  snow,  to  walk  upon  them  is  to  walk  on  the  clouds  ; 
their  forms  are  those  of  the  snow-drifts  filed  by  the  wind. 
When  they  do  not  curve,  they  make  that  almost  straight 
horizontal  line  which,  seen  five  or  six  miles  off  against  a 
pale  evening  sky  through  clear  or  misty  air,  is  so  signifi- 
cant and  so  untranslatable.  Taken  separately,  the  Downs 
have  lines  as  fair  as  those  of  animals  ;  the  light  wavers  on 
their  smooth  and;  as  it  were,  muscular  sides  as  it  does 
on  the  rippling  haunches  of  a  horse.  Yet  they  have  a 
hugeness  of  undivided  surface  for  which  there  is  no  com- 
parison to  be  found  on  the  earth,  and  but  seldom  in  the 
sky.  They  bring  into  the  mind  the  thought  that  beauty — 
whether  of  a  poet's  lines,  or  of  a  melody,  or  of  a  cloud,  or 
of  shining  water — is  the  natural  and  inseparable  com- 
panion to  passionate,  bold,  true  -  hearted  acts  and 
thoughts  and  emotions ;  and  with  that  thought  the 
question  as  to  what  great  thought  is  expressed  in  these 
sculptured  leagues  of  grassy  chalk.  Here,  it  sometimes 
appears,  especially  when  the  land  has  taken  an  alms  of 
twilight,  the  creative  forces  must  have  reposed  after 
mighty  labours,  and  have  had  dreams  which  their  deeds 
have  not  equalled  elsewhere.  And  it  is  little  wonder  that 
we,  who  can  create  nothing  except  of  snow  or  sand,  should 
be  happy  upon  them,  as  if  we  hoped  for  a  little  while  that 
their  waves  might  lead  us  to  whatever  fancy  has  painted 
as  desirable,  lovely,  and  good.  Yet  it  needs  but  to 
scratch  the  soil  to  recall  that  they  also  are  but  transient, 
the  result  of  a  myriad  deaths,  of  changes  and  motives  that 
regard  them  no  more  than  they  regard  us  and  our  little  acts 
and  great  desires  :  that  all  flows  away  as  water  or  wind. 


i6         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

One  of  the  noblest  views  of  the  Downs  and  the  northern 
country  towards  the  Cotswolds  and  Malvern  Hills  is  to 
be  had  from  the  roof  of  the  Elizabethan  manor-house  at 
Upper  Upham  ;  the  legend  is  that  Wales,  too,  can  be  seen. 
This  handsome,  remote  house,  high  on  the  hills,  reputed 
to  be  on  the  site  of  a  hunting-lodge  of  John  of  Gaunt, 
was  described  at  length  by  Jefferies  as  a  young  man  and 
archaeologist.  He  knew  the  tenant.  It  is  empty  now  ; 
several  of  its  windows  are  blocked  up  and  fruit-trees  grow 
over  them  ;  within,  the  antique  fireplaces  and  dais  are 
degraded  by  stale  wall-paper  ;  yet  the  lawn  is  mown  and 
kept  level  before  the  lofty  porch.  Jefferies  knew  the 
neighbouring  fields  well,  and  Snap  and  Woodsend  and  the 
British  settlements,  and  Lower  Upham,  the  farm  to  be 
passed  between  Chisledon  and  Upper  Upham  ;  he  re- 
marked, in  one  of  his  early  papers,  on  the  '  strange  avenue 
of  sycamores  '  at  Lower  Upham,  where  also  is  a  line  of  the 
same  trees  trooping  beautifully  without  purpose  across 
a  field,  planted  there,  I  suppose,  for  their  state,  by  some 
curious  lover  of  trees.  Upper  Upham  is  even  more 
pleasantly  to  be  reached  by  forsaking  all  roads  (save  where 
many  sheep-tracks  go  side  by  side,  and  the  eyebright 
flowers  in  the  narrow  strips  between)  and  crossing  the 
Downs  from  Liddington  '  Castle,'  then  through  Shipley 
Bottom,  where  stands  a  barn  and  stacks  under  ash  and 
sycamore  and  elder,  in  the  midst  of  corn,  and  walled  on 
every  side  by  Down  and  sky.  There  the  painted  lady 
butterfly  comes  to  the  scabious  flower  and  the  bee  to  the 
sweet  basil  in  perfect  solitude. 

It  must  have  been  on  these  hills  that  Jefferies  and 
Dickon  ranged  with  their  greyhounds  for  hares.  Some- 
times their  silence  retreats  for  a  little  while  before  the 
crying  of  foxhounds.  '  Yander  they  goo,  up  to  Barbriam 
Caastle  !'  says  the  ploughman,  checking  his  homeward 
jingling  team.  But  the  March  afternoon  is  at  an  end,  and 
it  is  too  late  to  follow  farther  over  the  hill.  The  wind 
has  fallen,  and  the  blackbird  sings  at  ease  ;  the  far-away 
missel-thrush  is  almost  as  mild  and  sweet.     A  hare  has 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES     17 

stolen  out,  and  in  the  still  moist  air  before  frost  the  violet 
scent  is  expanding.  Then,  suddenly,  the  huntsman's  horn 
crackles  upon  the  hill,  splintering  and  tearing  the  solitude  ; 
a  full,  rich  note  follows,  and  goes  to  the  heart  of  silence 
and  into  our  hearts,  too.  Again  and  again  a  shrewd, 
victorious  note  that  seems  the  very  essence  of  the  red 
jackets  that  sprinlde  the  saddening  slopes  of  Barbury  Hill. 
It  is  almost  night — a  most  almighty  quiet  night,  folding  all 
those  hills  as  sheep  into  a  pen  ;  yet  the  horn  threatens  it, 
invades  it,  overthrows  it,  shooting  to  and  fro  in  its  sombre 
texture  threads  of  crimson  and  gold.  And  the  heart  leaps 
up  and  is  glad  at  this  insult  to  the  night,  at  the  stinging 
music,  at  the  large  scene,  and  the  horses  and  horsemen 
gigantic  against  the  sky.  To  that  horn  blown  at  the  edge 
of  night  and  the  edge  of  the  world  come  all  the  hunters  of 
the  earth,  as  if  out  of  the  ground  or  the  sea  of  time  that 
washes  the  base  of  the  Down ;  and  they  are  more  than 
those  dark  hunters  on  the  ridge,  and  stand  among  them, 
weaving  strangeness  and  solemnity  about  them.  The 
heart  is  a  hunter  still,  and  it  has  found  a  long-desired 
quarry,  and  is  bringing  it  home  with  melody  over  the  early 
world,  as  grim  and  illimitable  as  the  level  cloud-land  in 
the  west.  But  the  ploughman  and  his  team  go  on  ;  the 
horn  has  died  away,  and  the  hounds  pass  silently,  like 
dreams  when  night  is  over  and  day  not  begun. 

Not  far  from  the  foot  of  Barbury  Hill,  and  almost  on 
the  Ridgeway,  is  the  parish  of  Draycot  Foliatt,  lying 
pleasant  among  oats  and  ash-trees.  It  is  merely  a  farm- 
house or  two,  and  their  fields,  their  birds,  their  hares,  and 
moles,  and  stoats,  and  mice.  Jefferies  mentions  it  once 
by  name,  in  an  early  newspaper  article  without  name,  in 
'  Wild  Life  in  a  Southern  County  '  as  a  parish  where  the 
dismantled  church  has  disappeared,  and  the  churchyard 
is  an  orchard,  sacred  from  the  plough.  Some  of  Jefferies' 
ancestors  came  from  this  isolated  upland  parish  ;  there 
were  many  of  his  name  at  Draycot  Foliatt  in  the  eighteenth 
century.  Long  ago,  an  old  man  at  Marlborough  Fair  said 
he  knew  a  parish  where  there  was  '  ne'er  a  wife,  ne'er  a 

2 


i8         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

child,  ne'er  a  cow,  ne'er  a  pig  '  ;  he  explained  that  it  was 
Draycot,  where  three  farmers  —  Jefferies,  Neale,  and 
Puckeridge — lived  as  bachelors  on  arable  farms  worked 
by  unmarried  labourers,  and  kept  no  pigs.  Part  of  this 
tale  is  in  '  Round  about  a  Great  Estate.'  A  fair  land  is 
this  on  a  stUl,  rainy  and  misty  winter  day,  with  its  wide, 
unoccupied  fields  and  dreaming  trees — no  men,  no  sound, 
and  the  Downs  as  imaginary  as  the  sea-noise  in  a  shell. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  Ridgeway  from  Draycot  is 
Chisledon,  where  many  a  Jefferies  is  buried,  and  Richard 
was  married.  Its  church  and  churchyard  are  drawTi  in 
the  opening  of  '  Greene  Feme  Farm.'  East  of  Chisledon 
is  Badbury,  the  '  Okeboume  '  of  '  Round  about  a  Great 
Estate,'  built  about  a  steep  coombe  at  the  edge  of  the  hills. 
The  pound  can  still  be  seen,  and  the  nobly-balanced  elm 
at  the  head  of  the  coombe  ;  but  the  windmill  is  gone. 
Behind  its  little  manor-house  are  the  green  lines  of  a 
vanished  building,  with  walnut-trees  and  a  domed  horse- 
chestnut  near.  Its  inns  are  fuU  of  monitory  verses  in  this 
kind  : 

'  My  liquor  is  good,  my  measure  is  just  ; 
Then  pray  excuse,  I  cannot  trust. 
Pray  be  seated  and  call  away 
For  what  you  will,  and  I'll  obey. 

'  There's  one  thing  more  I  do  desire  : 
That  you'll  not  stand  before  the  fire, 
Nor  on  the  table  attempt  to  sit 
Unless  a  quart  you  pay  for  it.  .  .  .' 

It  has  good,  white  farmhouses,  and  their  grassy,  thatched 
sheds  and  stacks  under  elm  and  ash  are  right  on  the  road. 
The  coombe  has  thatched  cottages  hidden  behind  fruit- 
trees.  Badbury  Wick,  the  Okebourne  Wick  of  '  Round 
about  a  Great  Estate,'  is  farther  north  on  a  by-road  to 
Coate.  Going  north-west  from  Badbury,  the  road  passes 
Medbourne  and  comes  to  Liddington.  By  the  manor- 
house  with  muUioned  windows,  in  a  coombe  below  the 
road,  used  to  be  a  mill,  and  this  and  the  miller  (I  think 
John  Brind)  were  the  models  for  Warren  House  and  Andrew 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES      19 

Fisher  in  '  Greene  Feme  Farm.'  The  old  man  and  some 
pretty  visitors  from  Wales  made  a  stir  that  is  still  remem- 
bered. He  may  have  been  the  miller  Tibbald  of  '  Round 
about  a  Great  Estate,'  that  name  being  a  common  local 
form  of  Theobald.  The  gabled  house  has  a  new-looking 
garden,  tennis-court,  and  swans  on  the  pond  ;  but  under 
the  sheep-terraced  hill  behind,  the  dovecot  and  mossy, 
thatched  farm-buildings  are  as  they  were. 

Going  west  and  north  from  Chisledon,  instead  of  to 
Badbury,  the  road  finds  the  hamlet  of  Hodson,  the  woods 
and  great  house  of  Burderop,  and  below  them  Coate 
Reservoir.  These  compose  the  chief  scene  of  '  The 
Amateur  Poacher '  and  '  The  Gamekeeper  at  Home.' 
The  keeper  lived  in  the  cottage  with  the  thrice-scalloped 
thatch  in  Hodson  Bottom,  sweet  chestnut  behind  it,  and 
birch  and  spruce  at  each  side  ;  date,  1741.  The  other 
houses  in  the  Bottom  are  all  thatched  but  one  ;  they  have 
a  little  window  in  the  middle  of  the  thatch  slope,  like  the 
dark  eye  of  a  hedgehog  among  his  spines,  and  they  stand 
irregularly  among  fruit,  bean  rows,  and  box- edging. 
*  Spring  guns  set  here  !'  is  the  landowner's  jocose  invita- 
tion to  the  wayfarer.  But  Jefferies  knew  the  woods 
through  and  through.  Here  were  the  fir-trees  and  prim- 
roses that  his  mind  would  not  separate.  Here  was  the 
fray  with  the  poachers  when  the  squire  (J.  J.  Calley,  I 
think)  was  knocked  on  the  head  ;  of  which,  and  many 
more  things,  Jefferies  heard  much  from  Mrs.  Rawlings, 
widow  of  an  old  Burderop  keeper.  Here,  on  Ladder  Hill, 
the  wind  is  full  of  the  scent  of  yellow  bed-straw,  and  the 
meadow  crane's-bill  grows  by  the  dogwood  and  hazel, 
beneath  the  oaks.  Here  were  the  rooks  and  wood-pigeons 
of  '  Wood  Magic'  Burderop  Park — its  beech  and  oak 
and  ash  and  fir  ;  its  clouds  (like  a  small,  earthly  dawn)  of 
purple  loosestrife  ;  its  avenues  of  limes  and  wych-elms ; 
its  grassy  spaces,  strewn  with  sarsens,  stately  and  undis- 
turbed ;  its  large,  dull,  sufficient-looking,  homely  house — 
suggested  the  Okeboume  Chace  of '  Round  about  a  Great 
Estate.' 

2 — 2 


20  THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

The  Reservoir  below  is  the  '  mere  '  that  appeared  first 
in  'The  Gamekeeper,'  and  again  in  'The  Amateur  Poacher,' 
'  Wild  Life,'  '  Round  about  a  Great  Estate,'  '  Bevis,'  and 
'  After  London.'  It  is  a  large,  deep,  weedy  pond,  shaped 
like  a  fish,  its  large  tail  at  the  north-east  end,  and  was 
constructed  in  a  marshy  hollow  in  1822  to  feed  the  Wilt- 
shire and  Berkshire  Canal.  It  was  reputed  to  have  a 
whirlpool.  There  were,  in  Jefferies'  day,  two  or  three 
boats  on  it,  including  a  punt  or  house-boat  for  bathing. 
On  the  north-west  side  Broome  plantation  comes  to  the 
edge,  and  reeds  and  partly  submerged  willows  keep  the 
shallows  free  from  waves.  At  the  south-west  comer  its 
head  is  cut  off  by  the  road  from  Broome  to  Hodson  ;  but 
this  head  is  now  almost  choked  by  weeds.  The  south-west 
side  has  its  now  peninsulated  island  and  many  wiUows  ; 
then  a  gulf — the  '  fir-tree  gulf  '  of  '  Bevis  ' — shadowed  by 
tall  willows.  Along  the  eastern  side  a  footpath  runs  over 
two  broad,  sloping  meadows — '  The  Plain  '  and  '  Green 
Fern  ' — belonging  to  Day  House  Farm  ;  and  in  these  elm 
and  oak  and  ash,  and  an  old  crab-tree,  stand  about  in  a 
happy  disarray.  Only  a  dead-leaf  boat  could  travel  far 
on  the  brook  that  enters  the  Reservoir  at  the  '  Gulf  ';  for 
its  bed  is  of  the  narrowest,  and  is  among  willow-herb  and 
calthropped  sedge,  and  under  the  overhanging  brier  and 
thorn  which  the  delicate  white  bryony  climbs  over. 
The  stream  that  flows  out  is  the  '  Mississippi,'  that  bounds 
Coate  Farm  and  moistens  its  willow-roots.  The  wild- 
voiced  sandpiper,  duck,  and  coot,  and  moorhen  haunt  the 
Reservoir  regularly  ;  sand-martin  and  swallow  fly  over  it ; 
sometimes  the  heron  overhangs  it  and  clanks,  seeming  to 
bring  storm  in  his  hollowed  wings.  There  are  the  largest 
of  pike  and  tench  in  the  water.  From  the  surface  can  be 
seen  the  '  Plain,'  the  chimneys  of  Day  House,  and  then 
nothing  beyond  but  the  clump  and  castle  of  Liddington, 
large  and  gaunt.  Alongside  the  road  by  Day  House  Farm 
is  part  of  a  half-buried  circle  of  sarsen  stones,  which 
Jefferies  was  first  to  notice. 

The  hamlet  of  Coate  is  a  wavering  double  row  of  farm- 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES     21 

houses  and  cottages,  less  than  two  miles  from  Swindon 
on  the  Hungerford  road.  The  first  house  on  the  right 
hand,  where  a  slight  hill  dips  to  the  little  bridge — a  white 
cottage  with  an  over-tall  chimney — was  once  John  Brown's. 
His  father.  Job  Brown's,  was  the  next  house  on  the  left. 
Beyond  the  bridge,  on  the  right,  is  'The  Sun,'  once  a 
thatched  inn  whose  sign  was  a  'veritable  orifiamme';  there, 
once  a  year,  men  used  to  assemble  to  eat  blackbird-pie  and 
drink.  Close  by,  on  opposite  sides  of  the  road,  were  the 
millwright's  and  Ikey  the  blacksmith's  shops.  The  mill- 
wright was  George  Bramble  ;  his  wife  kept '  The  Sun,'  and 
they  brewed  their  own  ale.  Next  to  this  inn  is  little  Coate 
Farm  house,  guarded  from  the  road  by  a  high  wall — 
over  which  Amaryllis  watched  the  country-side  going  to 
the  fair — and  a  row  of  pollard-limes.  Stripped  of  its 
thatch,  its  ha-ha  gone,  its  orchard  neglected,  it  is  the  ghost 
of  the  fragrant  home  described  so  often  in  '  Wild  Life,' 
in  '  Amaryllis,'  and  in  many  essays,  by  the  man  whose 
birth  here  is  recorded  on  a  tablet  at  the  gate.  A  wooden 
'  squeeze-belly  '  stile  opposite  admits  to  a  footpath  over 
fields  that  were  once  part  of  Coate  Farm.  Just  past  the 
thatched  outbuildings  of  the  farm  a  by-road,  bordered  by 
elms  and  good  ash-trees,  leads  to  Day  House  Farm,  its 
elms  and  pollard  willows,  and  half  a  hundred  moles  nailed 
to  a  pigsty  wall.  Jefferies'  wife  was  born  and  bred  at 
Day  House.  Beyond  this  turning,  on  both  sides  of  the 
road,  are  the  cottages  of  Coate,  close  to  the  road,  some  of 
only  one  floor — the  very  lowliest  of  defences  against  wind 
and  world  in  these  parts — and  one  ruinous,  with  long, 
narrow  gardens  suggesting  that  they  were  once  part  of 
the  grassy  edging  to  the  road.  John  Smith's  shanty  was 
on  the  right ;  '  The  Spotted  Cow  '  is  almost  opposite.  Be- 
yond that  are  several  cottages  and  a  horsechestnut-tree  ; 
and  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  still  deep  in  grass,  as 
when  Jefferies  mused  over  it,  is  the  milestone  saying 
'79  miles  to  London.'  The  last  house,  if  it  is  strictly  in 
Coate,  is  at  the  corner  of  a  branch-road  to  Wanborough, 
and  has  a  thatch  with  well-stitched  edges — occupied,  in 


22         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

fact,  by  '  S.  Theobald,  practical  thatcher,'  and  dating 
from  the  seventeenth  century.  At  that  comer  there  used 
to  be  a  '  catch-gate,'  to  catch  those  who  entered  the  turn- 
pike there,  and  so  missed  the  gate  at  Liddington.  The 
farmhouses  of  Snodshill  lie  off  the  road  on  the  other 
side  from  Coate  Farm  ;  there  lived  relations  and  friends 
of  Jefferies,  and  he  knew  all  their  fields  as  the  birds  know 
them. 

Such,  then,  is  the  surface  of  this  land,  such  the  genial 
reticence  of  its  fat  leazes,  its  double  hedges  like  copses, 
its  broad  cornfields,  its  oaks  and  elms  and  beeches,  its 
unloquacious  men,  its  immense  maternal  Downs.  Jef- 
feries came  to  express  part  of  this  silence  of  uncounted 
generations.  He  was,  as  it  were,  a  rib  taken  out  of  its 
side  in  that  long  sleep  last  disturbed  by  the  cannon  at 
Aldbourne  Chase.  So  rich  did  he  find  it  that  in  '  Sport  and 
Science  '  he  wrote  :  '  There  have  been  few  things  I  have 
read  of  or  studied,  which  in  some  manner  or  other  I  have 
not  seen  illustrated  in  this  county  while  out  in  the  fields.' 
Like  Thoreau,  he  calls  his  own  land  '  an  epitome  of  the 
natural  world,  and  ...  if  anyone  has  come  really  into 
contact  with  its  productions,  and  is  familiar  with  them, 
and  what  they  mean  and  represent,  then  he  has  a  know- 
ledge of  all  that  exists  on  earth.' 


CHAPTER    II 

ANCESTRY 

Jefferies  is,  and  has  long  been,  a  common  Wiltshire 
name,  spelt  also  Jeffries,  Jeffreys,  Jefferis,  Jefferie,  Jef- 
fereye,  Jeffery,  Jefferyes,  Jeffreyes,  Jeafries,  Jefferes. 
They  were  farmers,  coopers,  and  the  like  at  Wootton 
Bassett,  Clevancy,  Chippenham,  Marlborough,  in  the 
seventeenth  century.  In  the  parishes  of  Chisledon  and 
Draycot  Foliatt  they  rank  with  the  Webbs,  Garlicks, 
Crippses,  Lookers,  Nashes,  Woolfords,  Chowleses,  Pontings, 
and  Jeroms  for  abundance  and  persistency.  Sprinkled 
over  the  corn-land  and  meadow  between  Draycot  and 
Swindon  there  were  several  families  of  the  name,  yeomen 
and  labourers,  who  intermarried  with  Reeveses,  Harveys, 
Garlicks,  Jeroms,  Birds,  Brookses,  Chowleses,  Nashes, 
and  Bucklands,  of  the  neighbouring  parishes,  and  had 
many  children,  who  became  farmers,  labourers,  paupers, 
wanderers  to  other  parts,  vagrom  men  and  ancestors 
of  we  know  not  what  scholar,  merchant,  beauty,  slum- 
dweUer.  The  records  of  them  are  to  be  found  in  the 
parish  register  of  Chisledon  and  of  Holyrood,  Old  Swindon, 
though  at  Chisledon  there  is  a  gap  between  1669  and  1712. 
Fine  quintessential  history,  brief  as  the  local  speech,  these 
records  make.  An  old,  strange  man  is  found  dead  in  a 
field  in  February,  '  probably,'  it  is  added,  '  due  to  the 
severity  of  the  weather  and  his  advanced  age.'  A  base- 
bom  child  is  found  dead  and  deserted  by  its  '  unnatural 
mother '  under  a  hayrick.  The  poor  are  described,  thus 
briefly,  as  '  ancient  woman  '  or  '  young  girl.'     One  who 

23 


24         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

died  on  December  29,  1695,  was  '  Elizabeth,  daughter  of 
James  Blake,  a  seaman  (a  poor  vagrant) ';  another  is  Mary, 
*  daughter  of  Owen  Macldarten,  an  Irishman  ';  another, 
'  daughter  of  William  and  Sophia  Buckland,  travelling 
gypsies.'  Curious  are  the  changes  in  names  and  customs. 
Thus,  Nyporios  fades  through  Nipperys  and  Niperys  to 
the  Nipress  of  to-day.  Thus,  too,  up  to  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  they  gave  the  name  of  the  father  of 
an  illegitimate  child  ;  then  the  mother's  name,  and  the 
epithet  '  base-born  ';  finally,  in  the  nineteenth  century, 
civilization  reaches  another  milestone,  and  the  child's 
name  is  given,  and  the  mother  described  simply  as  '  un- 
married.' 

Richard  Jefferies  made  several  references  to  ancestors 
in  his  books.  The  Wheat  in  '  Saint  Guido  '*  tells  the 
child  that  his  '  papa's  papa's  papa,  ever  so  much  farther 
back  than  that,  had  all  the  fields  round  here,'  and  that  in 
time  every  one  was  lost,  and  that  yet  again  field  after  field 
was  bought.  In  '  The  Amateur  Poacher  '  he  speaks  of  a 
walnut  thrown  *  on  the  place  ' — i.e.,  at  Coate — by  his 
great-grandfather.  Iden  in  '  Amaryllis  at  the  Fair ' 
speaks  of  a  great-uncle,  a  '  capital  man  of  business, 
who  built  the  mill  and  bought  the  old  place  at  Luckett's, 
which  belonged  to  us  before  Queen  Elizabeth's  days,'  and 
'  very  nearly  made  up  the  fortunes  Nicholas  and  the  rest 
of  them  got  rid  of.'  It  has  also  been  said,  and  often 
repeated,  that  Jefferies  came  of  a  long  line  of  yeomen 
ancestors  ;  and  one  adds  that  their  bones  are  in  Chisledon 
churchyard.  It  seems,  however,  quite  certain  that 
Richard's  great-grandfather  was  one  Richard  Jefferies, 
born  at  Draycot  Foliatt  in  1738!  or  1734.  If  he  was  born 
in  1734,  he  was  the  seventh  child  of  V.'illiam  and  Hannah 
Jeffries  {sic)  of  Draycot. J  He  may,  on  the  other  hand, 
have  been  a  younger  son  of  John  and  Sarah  {ncc  Harvey) 
Jeffries,  also  of  Draycot,  who  were  married  in  172S.     This 

*  The  Open  Air. 

t  'Forbears  of  Richard  Jefferies,'  Country  Life,  March  14,  1908. 

X  Chisledon  Register. 


ANCESTRY  25 

Richard,  in  1772,  married  Fanny  Lucketl  at  Lechlade,  in 
Gloucestershire.  This  pair  lived  for  some  time  at  Rod- 
bourne  Cheney,  near  Swindon  ;  and  there,  in  or  about 
1780,  was  born  their  eldest  son,  James  Luckett,  and,  in 
1784,  John,  the  grandfather  of  our  Richard  Jefferies. 
Fanny  Jefferies  died  in  1805,*  and  a  descendant  writes  of 
her  that  she  '  must  have  been  a  woman  not  only  of  parts, 
but  of  means  and  refinement,  her  many  journeys  to  Bath 
being  noted  at  a  time  when  only  the  wealthy  and  high- 
bom  frequented  that  "  city  of  waters."  'f  Her  husband, 
Richard,  who  survived  until  1822,  purchased  Coate  Farm 
in  1800,  together  with  a  mill  and  bakery  at  Swindon.  It 
is  on  record  that  J  he  was  a  stiff  man,  who  twice  stood  out 
against  the  sum  demanded  by  the  Vicar  of  Chisledon,  as 
tithe  ;  his  son  John  did  the  same  after  that  in  1832  and 

1833. 

The  Jefferies'  of  Draycot  must  have  been  substantial 
men,  who  made  money  when  the  price  of  corn  was  high 
in  the  early  nineteenth  century — men  like  '  Uncle  Jona- 
than '  in  '  Round  about  a  Great  Estate.'  Some  of  their 
tombs  at  Chisledon  are  weighty  and  important. 

Of  the  two  sons  of  Richard — James  Luckett  and  John — 
not  much  is  known.  John  is  the  grandfather  Iden  of 
'  Amaryllis,'  and  the  '  little  old  man  with  silver  buckles 
on  his  shoes  '  of  '  My  Old  Village.'  As  a  young  man,  he 
went  to  London,  and  was  with  a  Mr.  Taylor,  printer  and 
publisher  of  Red  Lion  Court,  Fleet  Street. §  It  was  in 
London  that  he  married  Fanny  Ridger,  and  there  he  lived 
until  he  came  to  Swindon  in  1816  to  look  after  the  Swindon 
business.  In  London  four  children  were  born  to  him.  Of 
these,  James  Luckett,  the  eldest  boy,  but  not  the  first- 
bom,  was  the  father  of  Richard  Jefferies,  the  author. 
John  Jefferies  is  said  not  to  have  liked  the  bakery.  He 
was  a  lover  of  books  and  curious  in  bindings — a  '  prodigy 
of  leaming,'  someone  calls  him — and  London  attracted 

*  'Forbears  of  Richard  Jefferies,'  Country  Life,  March  14,  1908. 
t  Ibid.  X  Ibid.  %  Ibid. 


26         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

him  ;  but  he  never  returned  to  it,  and  never  entered  a 
rail  way- train,  against  which  he  had  a  strong  prejudice. 
Life  was  made  none  the  easier  for  him  by  the  presence  of 
his  elder  brother,  James  Luckett,  and  of  a  maiden  aunt 
in  the  same  house  with  himself  and  his  children,  who 
reached  the  number  of  eight.  About  the  house  his  old 
father  had  hidden  much  money,  out  of  a  dislike  for  banks. 
He  was  a  good,  even  if  an  unwilling,  baker,  and  he  is  still 
remembered  as  the  maker  of  excellent  lardy  cakes  at 
three-halfpence  each  :  sugar  and  lard  were  not  stinted  ; 
the  caraway  of  his  rivals  was  left  out ;  and  the  cakes  col- 
lected the  subtlest  goodness  from  all  the  joints  of  meat, 
the  loaves,  cakes,  and  tarts,  which  were  baked  in  the  same 
oven.  From  the  lardy  cakes  he  could  retire  to  his  books. 
Among  his  other  activities  was  the  investment  of  some  of 
his  father's  money  in  the  building  of  two  houses  at  Swin- 
don. And  he  was  a  lover  of  the  country,  fond  of  driving 
through  the  corn-land,  and  '  at  an  age  of  much  over 
seventy  would  climb  up  two  flights  of  stairs  ...  to  sit 
at  an  upper  window  and  gaze  his  fill  at  the  swelling  undu- 
lations .  .  .  which  extended  for  miles  across  a  fertile 
green  valley  to  an  answering  chalk  ridge.'  He  is  said  to 
have  had  the  warm  temper  of  the  famOy,  but  also  much 
generosity  and  kindliness  'under  the  crust  of  reserve.'* 
'  When  he  disliked  he  did  it  thoroughly  ;  but  he  was  a 
conscientious  upholder  of  Church  and  State.'  His  wife, 
'  a  bright,  handsome,  amiable  woman,'  died  in  1858  ;  he 
himself  in  1868. 

John  Jefferies'  elder  brother,  James  Luckett,  never 
married.  His  oddities  were  put  down  to  something  like 
madness.  He  had  a  great  distaste  for  braces,  and  pre- 
ferred an  old  clock-chain  wound  about  his  waist ;  when  his 
brother's  wife  stitched  the  braces  to  his  breeches,  he 
allowed  them  to  hang  unused,  and  still  wore  the  chain, 
which  clanked  terribly  on  the  footpaths  at  night.  He 
would  often  walk  thus  from  Swindon    to  Coate  with  a 

*  '  Forbears  of  Richard  Jefferies,'  Country  Lifc^  March  14,  1908. 


ANCESTRY  27 

kettlefiil  of  crumbs  over  his  shoulders  for  his  nephew  and 
namesake's  fowls.  It  is  said  that  he  once  pulled  up  a 
number  of  fruit-trees  which  the  nephew,  Richard's  father, 
had  not  planted  rightly,  and  that  it  was  this  interference 
which  drove  the  young  man  to  America  in  1837.  He  was 
the  '  ghoul  of  the  old  mill '  described  in  '  Reminiscences, 
Notes,  and  Relics  of  ye  Old  Wiltshire  Towne,'  by  William 
Morris  of  the  Swindon  Advertiser. 

'  He  was  rather  above  the  middle  height,  and  rather 
stout  and  heavy  built.  He  used  to  wear  just  about  the 
same  articles  of  dress  as  other  people,  but  he  wore  them 
different  from  most  people.  For  instance,  he  wore  heavy 
hobnailed  boots,  which  were  never  laced  up,  and  the 
tongues  of  which  were  always  lopping  about  on  the 
fronts  ;  he  wore  thick  worsted  stockings,  but  they  were 
always  down  about  his  ankles  ;  he  wore  breeches  without 
braces,  open  at  the  knees,  and  which  were  saved  from 
dropping  down  by  a  regular  and  persistent  "  hitching  up." 
His  coat  and  waistcoat  were  never  buttoned  up,  while  his 
shirt  was  always  unfastened  and  open,  leaving  in  full  view 
his  hair-covered  breast,  which  appeared  to  be  a  continua- 
tion of  his  grizzly  beard,  which  was  surmounted  by  such  a 
shagg}'  head  of  hair  as  was  but  seldom  to  be  seen.  His 
favourite  position  and  occupation  was,  after  he  had  got  his 
mill  going,  to  rest  his  elbows  on  the  bottom  half  of  the  mill- 
door,  at  the  point  where  he  could  command  a  view  of 
the  lane,  and  of  any  children  who  might  venture  to  enter 
it  from  the  road  end.  With  his  elbow  resting  on  his 
clenched  fist,  he  would  be  content  to  wait  for  hours,  like 
a  cat  watching  for  a  mouse,  in  the  hope  of  meeting  with 
some  children,  on  whom  he  might  scowl,  and  frighten  out 
of  their  lives.' 

It  was  to  make  up  for  his  shortcomings  that  his  younger 
brother  was  called  to  Swindon  in    1816.     He   died   in 

1854- 

Of  the  eight  children  of  John  Jefferies  (the  last  of  whom, 
Fanny,  I  believe,  died  in  1901,  aged  eighty-eight),  two  are 
interesting  here — James  Luckett,  the  father  of  Richard, 


28         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

and  John  Luckett,  who  died  in  1856,  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
one.  John  Luckett  is  now  remembered  chiefly  for  a 
widely  circulated  print  of  Old  Swindon  Church  which  he 
drew,  with  his  uncle's  mill-pond  thereby,  and  in  it  he  has 
put  three  horses  cooling  their  feet ;  for  in  those  days  the 
postillions  alighting  at  'The  Goddard  Arms'  took  their 
horses  to  this  pond.  He  was  *  a  youth  of  rare  promise — 
developed  into  an  artist  of  no  mean  powers  ;  architecture, 
music,  and  singing  held  great  charms  for  him,  and  he 
excelled  in  all.  Many  are  the  choice  little  pencil  sketches, 
fine-line  drawings,  and  water-colours  treasured  by  the 
family,  together  with  his  guitar,  and  many  volumes 
of  music  copied  with  a  skUful  pen.'*  It  is  said  that 
Richard  took  after  him.  His  sisters  were  *  exceptionally 
educated  women  for  the  time ';  rumour,  insisting  on 
the  eccentricity  of  the  family,  says  that  one  of  them 
spent  a  year  in  bed  in  the  misery  arising  from  a  love- 
affair. 

James  Luckett  Jefferies,  the  father  of  Richard,  was  bom 
in  London  in  1816.  He  was  a  dark-haired,  intensely 
bright-blue-eyed  man  of  about  five  feet  ten  inches  in 
height,  with  fine  hands  and  feet.  He  is  said  to  have 
worked  his  passage  out  to  America  in  1837,  ^^^  there,  in 
Canada,  and  up  the  Hudson  River,  he  stayed  a  year  or 
two,  and  moved  about  a  good  deal,  working,  I  have  heard, 
as  a  farm-labourer.  In  1844  he  married  Elizabeth  Gyde, 
daughter  of  Charles  Gyde  of  Islington,  who  was  a  book- 
binder at  7^,  Red  Lion  Court,  Fleet  Street,  and  had  been 
a  '  colleague  of  his  father's  at  Taylor's.'f  Another  Miss 
Gyde  married  Thomas  Harrild,  a  letterpress  and  litho- 
graphic printer  in  Shoe  Lane,  Fleet  Street  ;  this  aunt  was 
Richard's  kindest  friend.  Frederick  Gyde,  her  brother,  was 
an  engraver  on  wood  of  some  note,  and  a  delicate  artist 
with  the  pencil ;  he  is  the  Alere  Flamma  of  '  Amaryllis  at 
the  Fair.'  The  Gydes  came  from  Pains  wick,  near  Stroud,  in 

*  'Forbears  of  Richard  Jefferies,'  Country  Life^  lAaxch  14,  1908. 
t  Ibid. 


ANCESTRY  29 

Gloucestershire,  and  they  had  farmed  land  in  that  place, 
famous  for  its  wholesome  air  ;  and  of  them  I  have  heard  it 
said  that  one  generation  lived  in  the  country  and  the  next 
in  London,  as  the  Jefferies'  did.  Charles  Gyde  '  of 
Islington  '  was  buried  at  Pitchcombe  Church,  near  Stroud. 
Elizabeth  Gyde  was  short,  with  hazel  eyes,  bro-s\Ti  hair, 
and  a  lasting  fine  complexion — '  a  town-bred  woman  with 
a  beautiful  face  and  a  pleasure-loving  soul,  kind  and  gener- 
ous to  a  fault,  but  unsuited  to  a  country  life.'*  Her  first 
child  was  Ellen,  who  died  young,  by  an  accident;  the  second, 
John  Richard  Jefferies,  who  so  signed  himself  as  a  boy,  but 
was  afterwards  Richard  Jefferies  to  the  world.  He  was 
bom  on  November  6,  1848,  and  was  christened  early  in 
the  next  year  by  Mr.  Bailey,  Vicar  of  Holy  Rood,  Swindon. 
He  had  very  fair,  some  call  it  sandy,  uncurling  hair  ;  a 
biggish,  '  small  Wellington  '  nose  ;  loose,  sensitive,  '  some- 
what large  '  mouth,  '  with  slight  pendulous  lower  lip  '  ; 
*  wonderfully  clear  complexion  '  ;  '  widely-opened,  promi- 
nent blue  eyes  '  ;  good  teeth,  that  were  good  until  his 
death  ;  and  small,  firm  hands.  He  grew  to  be  about  six 
feet  in  height,  slender,  with  a  slight  stoop  early  deve- 
loped. He  had  two  younger  brothers  —  Henry  James 
and  Charles — and  a  sister  Sarah,  all  of  whom  are  living 
now. 

James  Luckett  Jefferies  can  be  pretty  well  known  by 
studying  his  portrait  as  Iden  in  '  Amaryllis.'  Local 
memory  corroborates  that  portrait.  He  was  an  original 
man,  an  eccentric,  too,  a  man  of  character  and  instincts, 
sensitive,  full  of  various  activities,  a  great  walker  even 
when  past  seventy,  and  notably  clever  with  his  hands. 
He  was  very  fond  of  trees,  as  they  grew  and  when  thrown, 
and  could  pick  out  a  good  tjhing  for  himself  when  there 
had  been  a  fall  of  timber  at  feurderop.  Richard  Jefferies 
speaks  of  his  great-grandfather  as  a  connoisseur  in  timber, 
'  which  is,  indeed,  a  sort  of  instinct  in  all  his  descendants.' 
There  was  oak,  elm,  and  ash,  and  a  withy-bed  on  Coate 

*  '  Forbears  of  Richard  JefiFeries,'  Country  Life,  March  14,  1908. 


30         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

Farm,  walnuts  overhanging  the  farmyard  itself,  and  much 
fruit  in  the  garden.  And  James  Jefferies  liked  to  plant. 
He  always  had  good  apples  of  his  own  growing  at  Coate  ; 
and  it  was  he  who  planted  the  copper-beech  behind  the 
house,  and  the  French  cherry  in  front.  '  It  was  he  who 
brought  a  water-finder  with  his  witch-hazel  to  the  farm, 
and  who  made  the  long  tunnel  through  the  fields  to  bring 
the  water  into  the  house.  (By-the-by,  this  water  is  gone 
from  the  old  home  now,  and  the  cottagers  used  to  say, 
'  Ould  Mr.  Jefferies,  he  stopped  it,  afore  he  went  away  !') 
It  was  he  who  rooted  up  all  the  rough  old  cider  apples, 
and  stocked  the  orchard  with  the  sweet,  delightful  codlins 
and  russets  it  now  possesses  ;  he  planted  the  pear-trees 
on  the  walls,  the  Siberian  crab  and  the  yew-tree  on  the 
lawn,  and  the  luscious  and  then  little-known  egg-plums  ; 
the  box-hedges,  in  Richard's  youth  just  at  their  prime, 
taller  than  a  man  and  a  dense  cover  for  birds.  He  scat- 
tered the  musk-seed,  so  that  each  year  the  delicate,  scented 
little  plant  would  crop  up  between  the  paving-stones 
under  the  "  parlour  "  window.  His  garden  produce  was 
always  of  the  best ;  no  one  else  ever  grew  such  red  carrots, 
yellow  parsnips,  juicy  cucumbers  !  He  planted  horse- 
chestnuts  and  filberts.  (I  remember  how  he  cut  down 
the  whole  hedge  in  a  rage  one  day,  because  the  men  from 
the  New  Town,  as  it  was  called,  had  rifled  the  nuts  in  the 
early  morning.)'* 

They  say,  too,  that  he  planted  the  mulberry  and  the 
weeping  ash  at  Coate  ;  and  he  used  to  trim  the  pollard- 
limes  behind  the  front  wall,  so  that  they  made  a  solid 
bastion  of  leaves  against  the  world.  When  he  had  no 
trees  of  his  own,  in  his  old  age  at  Bath,  he  became  a  gar- 
dener, and  he  got  to  know  all  the  trees  in  the  gardens. 
Of  birds,  too,  he  knew  much,  as  a  sportsman  and  some- 
thing more  ;  it  seems  to  have  been  he  who  shot  the  last 
bittern  at  Coate.  Sometimes  he  fished.  He  kept  bees 
under   the  southern   wall  of  the  house.     He   built   the 

Forbears  of  Richard  Jefferies,'  Country  Life^  March  14,  190S. 


ANCESTRY  31 

piggery  and  stable  himself,  and  the  high  wall—  Amaryllis's 
wall — which  screens  the  garden  from  the  road,  and  the 
blue  summer-house  that  used  to  stand  at  the  bottom  of 
his  garden,  paved  with  radiating  lines  of  kidney-stones 
which  he  brought  himself  from  Medbourne.  He  made  a 
ha-ha  between  the  garden  and  the  field  ;  he  put  a  seat 
round  a  sycamore  that  stood  by  the  summer-house.  He 
was  a  maker  of  good  gates,  and  the  one  which  Iden  and 
the  carpenter  made  in  '  Amaryllis  '  was  hung  opposite 
the  little  church  at  Coate. 

He  was  a  funny-tempered  man,  full  of  unexpected  likes 
and  dislikes.  It  is  remembered  that  he  hated  the  smell 
of  the  gin  that  was  drunk  at  Burderop  over  the  timber, 
and  he  disliked  tobacco-smoke.  One  year  he  would  give 
up  the  garden  to  fruit-bushes  ;  again  it  would  be  gorgeous 
with  uncommon  flowers  ;  and  then  the  flowers  gave  way 
to  a  fountain  and  gold  and  silver  fish.  He  could  be  play- 
fully mischievous,  too,  and  like  to  hear  the  splash  of 
coping-stones  from  the  little  Coate  Road  bridge  as  he 
pushed  them  over  into  the  brook  at  night.  Except  in 
winter,  he  wore  no  stockings,  and  he  took  little  care  of 
his  clothes.  His  most  noted  public  act  was  the  yearly 
bonfire  in  the  field  opposite  the  farmhouse  on  November  5. 
He  seems  to  have  excited  curiosity,  awe,  and  amusement 
more  often  than  affection,  but  there  is  a  story  told  that 
reveals  his  genial  side.  In  the  tall  copper  under  the  steep 
thatch  of  the  older  part  of  the  house  he  used  to  brew  some 
very  good,  strong  ale — '  Goliath  ale  ' — and  he  would  let 
his  milker,  then  Abner  Webb,  take  as  much  as  he  liked  of 
this.  James  Jefferies  would  thus  come  into  the  milking- 
shed  sometimes,  and  find  Abner  happy  but  incapable  on 
the  floor.  He  would  milk  the  cows  himself,  and  pass  it 
over,  until  he  at  last  had  to  tell  Abner  one  Friday  that 
he  would  pay  him  wages  no  more. 

'  Well,'  said  Abner,  '  if  thee  dosn't  knaw  a  good 
servant,  I  knows  a  good  maister  ;  and  if  thee  won't 
pay  I,  I'll  sarve  ee  for  nowt.'  And  he  remained  on  the 
farm. 


32         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

James  Jefferies  always  voted  blue,  but  was  a  Radical  in 
many  of  his  ideas.  He  was  a  Churchman  :  for  some  time 
the  Coate  services  were  held  at  the  back  of  his  house  ;  and 
it  was  as  much  out  of  his  hatred  of  the  Methodists  as  of  love 
for  the  Church  that  he  offered  to  give  the  land  and  to 
cart  the  stones  for  the  chapel  at  Coate. 

Less  is  said  of  Elizabeth,  his  wife.  She,  too,  was 
generous,  but  irritable  and  queer,  and  there  are  hints  that 
a  country  life  on  a  small,  encumbered  farm  was  not  what 
she  desired.  But  she  made  admirable  butter,  as  some 
still  remember,  and  a  small  cheese — about  eight  to  the 
hundredweight. 

She  and  her  husband  and  John  Brown — and  after  him, 
Abner  Webb — with  extra  hands  at  haymaking,  managed 
the  little  farm.  In  the  year  of  Richard's  birth  gold  was 
discovered  in  California,  and  soon  after  in  Australia. 
Agriculture  prospered.  Meat,  cheese,  and  butter  were 
at  a  high  price  ;  rates  were  low  ;  more  money  was  spent  on 
drainage  and  artificial  manures  ;  great  improvements  were 
made  in  agricultural  machinery  ;  and  Jefferies,  writing  to 
Mrs.  Harrild  at  the  age  of  seven,  shows  how  much  he  was 
impressed  by  a  threshing-machine  which  he  had  seen  for 
the  first  time  at  a  large  farm  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  he 
drew  a  picture  of  the  machine.  But  Coate  Farm  was 
only  about  forty  acres  in  extent,  and  though  the  land  was 
very  good  and  was  given  to  James  Jefferies  on  his  mar- 
riage, freehold,  it  never  brought  him  much  money,  even 
in  the  best  days. 

The  nearest  market  was  at  Swindon — at  first  a  '  gin- 
and-water  market,'  where  farmers,  with  samples  of  com 
in  their  pockets,  sat  about  over  a  glass  and  a  pipe,  and 
another  glass  and  another  pipe,  till  a  dealer  appeared. 
This  was  followed  by  a  couple  of  rows  of  movable  posts 
and  rails  in  the  Square  every  Monday  (opposite  the 
bakery),  with  sacks  of  wheat  leaning  against  them.  In 
1853  a  market-house  was  built ;  in  1866  the  present  Com 
Exchange  was  opened.  There  was  a  horse-fair  all  the 
way  up  Short  Edge  or  Devizes  Road,  and  a  montlily  cattle- 


ANCESTRY  33 

market  in  High  Street,  branching  into  Wood  Street  and 
Cricldade  Street.  There  were  several  fairs,  for  the  sale 
of  in-calf  heifers  in  the  spring  and  of  fat  cattle  in 
winter.  At  Lady  Day  and  Michaelmas  there  was  a  hiring 
fair  :  carters  had  a  piece  of  whipcord  in  their  hats,  cowmen 
and  foggers  a  lock  of  cowhair,  dairymaids  a  bunch  of 
ribbons  pinned  at  their  breasts  ;  when  hired,  they  attached 
long  streamers. 


CHAPTER  III 

CHILDHOOD  AT  COATE  FARM 

CoATE  Farm  is  a  plain,  oblong,  slated,  brick  house  of  two 
stories,  including  the  attics,  attached  on  the  east  side  to 
the  small,  steep-roofed,  and  still  thatched  remnant  of  an 
older  house.  In  front,  one  sitting-room  downstairs  has  a 
bay-window  and  window-seat.  A  large  pear-tree  covers 
the  western  end  of  the  house,  and  still  touches,  as  in 
Jefferies'  day,  the  attic  window  that  looks  to  Swindon. 
The  bedrooms,  one  of  them  in  the  old  part  under  the 
thatch,  are  reached  by  irregular  passages  and  steps,  and 
the  staircase  is  narrow  and  dark.  At  the  top  are  two 
long  low  attics,  one  of  them  the  cheese-room  where  Jef- 
feries read  and  Amaryllis  painted,  when  its  window  was 
latticed,  but  not  glazed.  Beside  the  bedroom,  there  is 
a  cellar,  and  a  kitchen  with  open  fireplace  and  brewing 
copper,  all  under  the  thatch  ;  and  outside  that  the  dairy, 
at  right  angles  to  the  house.  Thatched  outbuildings  are 
close  by,  under  elms,  to  the  east.  The  front  garden, 
screened  by  wall  and  pollard-limes,  has  several  trees — 
clipped  yew,  French  cherry,  plum,  apple,  and  pear  ;  and 
some  ill-grown  plums  lean  against  the  wall,  whence 
Amaryllis  could  easily  look  down  on  to  the  sunken  road. 
In  the  back  garden,  also,  are  fruit-trees,  together  with 
mulberry,  copper  beech,  and  weeping  ash. 

Powdered  by  motor-cars,  and  deprived  of  most  of  its 
thatch,  it  is  a  dull,  unnoticeable  house,  the  greater  part  of 
it  obviously  belonging  to  about  the  year  1820,  when 
John  Jefferies  built  all  but  what  is  still  thatched.     The 

34 


CHILDHOOD  AT  COATE  FARM  35 

ha-ha  where  the  beehives  stood  and  the  ants  nested  is 
gone,  the  summer-house  is  gone.  But  the  martins  still 
nest  under  the  eaves ;  there  is  still  some  lavender  in  the 
garden  ;  and  in  the  early  June  mornings — and  in  Jefferies' 
^ books — it  is  easy  to  see  how  sweet  and  fit  a  home  it  must 
have  been  made  by  James  Jefferies  in  the  middle  of  last 
century. 

In  the  farmyard  stood  the  common  pump  of  the  village, 
which  made  the  place  the  hub  of  the  universe,  James 
Jefferies  himself  being  fond  of  talk,  and,  as  an  old  hay- 
maker says,  '  didn't  bustle  about  like  some  of  'em.' 

The  land  attached  to  the  farmhouse  was  very  little — 
about  forty  acres,  all  of  it  grass,  feeding  about  eight  cows 
and  not  employing  more  than  one  labourer  except  at 
the  haymaking.  Most  of  the  land  lay  close  round  the 
house  :  two  fields  opposite,  called  locally  Little  and 
Great  '  Axe  '  or  '  Auks,'  but  by  Jefferies  '  Hawkes  '  ; 
and  three  immediately  behind,  bounded  on  the  south 
by  the  Reservoir — the  Home  Field,  nearest  the  road  to 
Day  House,  the'Brook  Field,  between  that  and  the  stream, 
and  a  little  corner  piece  beyond  called  Little  Home  Field. 
This  little  piece  was  a  warm,  rich  corner  where  there  was 
always  a  partridge  or  two,  and  Richard  loved  its  oaks. 
But  right  away  from  the  house,  beyond  the  Reservoir, 
and  on  the  very  edge  of  Burderop — and  now  gathered  into 
that  estate — was  another  small  field  known  as  '  The 
Hodson  Ground.'  It  had  goodly  double  hedges,  and, 
being  so  near  the  preserves,  partook  of  some  of  their 
advantages,  and  served  as  an  invaluable  outwork  for 
Jefferies  when  he  began  to  loaf  about  with  a  gun.  The 
trains  between  Swindon  and  Marlborough  did  not,  in  those 
days,  burst  in  among  the  pheasants  of  Burderop,  and  the 
quiet  of  the  field  was  complete. 

This  house  and  the  fields  were  a  good  place  for  one  to 
live  in  who  was  to  become  part  of  that  country-side.  That, 
and  liberty  for  six  days  in  the  week,  and  James  Luckett 
Jefferies  for  his  father,  was  in  Richard's  favour.  Then, 
too,  there  was  his  great-uncle's  mill  and  its  vast  wheel  by 

3—2 


36         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

old  Swindon  Church.  And  among  men  there  were  John 
Brown,  the  milker  ;  Thomas  Smith,  who  worked  at  Day 
House  and  cobbled  at  home  ;  and  the  millwright  and 
blacksmith  by  '  The  Sun '  ;  old  Day,  the  bailiff  at  the 
Reservoir ;  old  Mrs.  Rawlings,  the  widow  of  a  Burderop 
keeper  ;  and  later,  the  gamekeeper  himself,  named  Hay- 
lock.  And  he  had  but  to  follow  the  brook  a  little  way  out 
of  his  father's  land  to  come  to  the  bridge  at  Wanborough 
Nythe,  an  old  Roman  station,  where  he  must  early  have 
felt  the  contrasts  and  the  harmonies  of  sunlight  on  running 
water  with  the  vestiges  of  long-vanished  men. 

'  Bevis,'  '  Wood  Magic,'  '  The  Gamekeeper  at  Home,' 
and  '  The  Amateur  Poacher,'  reveal  pretty  certainly  what 
use  Jefferies  made  of  these  surroundings  as  a  child.  Of 
the  childish  sayings  in  the  forty-ninth  chapter  of  '  Bevis  ' 
it  is  rash  to  attribute  any  to  Jefferies  himself,  since  when 
he  wrote  the  book  he  had  a  boy  of  his  own.  Some,  I  like 
to  think,  are  certainly  his,  such  as  :* 

'  "  Ah  !"  said  he  thoughtfully.  "  He  [the  Deity]  got  a 
high  ladder  and  climbed  up  over  the  hedges  to  make  the 
thunder.  .  .  ." 

'  At  Brighton  he  was  taken  over  the  Pavilion.  .  .  ,  By- 
and-by,  in  the  top  stories,  rather  musty  from  old  carpets 
and  hangings  :  "  Hum  !"  said  he  ;  "  seems  stuffy.  I  can 
smell  that  gentleman's  dinner  "  {i.e.,  George  IV. 's). 

'  Visiting  a  trim  suburban  viUa.  ...  "  Don't  think 
much  of  your  garden,"  said  Bevis  ;  "  no  buttercups.  .  .  ." 

'  The  crucifixion  hurt  his  feelings  very  much.  ...  "If 
God  had  been  there.  He  would  not  have  let  them  do  it."  ' 

'  Wood  Magic  '  gives  us  some  unquestionably  true  things 
about  those  early  years — the  wanderings  in  the  Home 
Field  after  butterflies,  the  talks  with  thrush  and  weasel 
and  hare,  the  spaniel  his  companion ;  the  love  of  the  sky 
as  he  lay  in  the  grass  and  looked  up,  '  as  he  always  did 
when  he  wanted  someone  to  speak  to,'  and  said,  '  Sky,  I 
love  you  like  I  love  my  mother.'  How  early  I  do  not  know, 
but  it  is  likely  that  very  early  he  fell,  on  occasion,  into  a 

*  Bevis. 


1 


CHILDHOOD  AT  COATE  FARM  37 

dream  state  with  something  like  the  vague,  universal  con- 
sciousness described  in  '  Bevis  '  ;  he*  '  felt  with  his  soul  out 
to  the  far-distant  sun  just  as  easily  as  he  could  feel  with 
his  hand  to  the  bunch  of  grass  beside  him  ;  he  felt  with  his 
soul  down  through  into  the  earth  just  as  easily  as  he  could 
touch  the  sward  with  his  fingers.  Something  seemed  to 
come  to  him  out  of  the  sunshine  and  the  grass.'  He  was 
physically  sensitive,  and  not  without  a  conscious  indulg- 
ence of  this  sensitiveness,  if  we  may  judge  from  the 
passage  in  '  Bevis  '  where  his  hero  lies  down  and  shuts 
his  eyes  to  think,  and  Mark  gently  tickles  his  forehead 
and  neck  and  hair  and  cheeks  with  a  grass  flower.  '  Tell 
me  a  story/  says  Mark  in  one  place  ;  '  I'll  tickle  you,  and 
you  tell  me  a  story  ;'  and  Bevis  closes  his  eyes  and  begins 
a  tale.  Thought  and  sensation  were  closely  allied  in 
Jefferies  at  a  much  later  time. 

But  he  must  also  have  been  a  true,  ferocious  country 
child,  robbing  birds'-nests  freely — a  thing  he  was  eager  to 
pardon  to  the  end — and  willing  to  shoot  the  thrush,  trap 
the  weasel,  and  smash  the  toad.  Where  men  and  children 
are  at  close  grips  with  Nature,  and  have  to  wrest  a  living 
from  the  soil  or  the  sea,  there  is  apt  to  hide,  like  an  im- 
prisoned toad,  at  the  very  roots  of  their  philosophy,  if  it 
does  not  flap  like  a  crow  in  the  topmost  branches,  a  feeling 
that  all  the  life  that  is  not  with  them — as  horse'and  sheep 
and  cow  and  sheep-dog  are — is  against  them,  rivalling 
them  in  pursuit  of  food  and  warmth,  robbing  the  drills 
and  taking  a  share  of  the  waving  corn  and  the  glittering 
harvest  of  the  sea.  Sometimes  the  toad,  sometimes  the 
crow,  this  primeval  gnome  or  puck,  persisted  in  Jefferies' 
mind  for  many  years,  if  it  evei  forsook  it.  He  arose  out  of 
the  earth,  and  he  had  its  cruelty.  He  beat,  or  would  have 
beaten,  the  offending  beast,  much  as  Mark  and  Bevis 
'  thrashed,  thwacked,  banged,  thumped,  poked,  prodded, 
kicked,  belaboured,  bumped  and  hit '  the  donkey,  '  work- 
ing themselves  into  a  frenzy  of  rage.'f  It  was  '  the  same 
Bevis  who  put  an  aspen-leaf  carefully  under  the  fly  to 

*  Wood  Magic.  ■\  Bevis. 


38         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

save  it  from  drowning.  The  sky  was  blue  and  the  even- 
ing beautiful,  but  no  one  came  to  help  the  donkey.'* 
With  the  village  boys  he  caught  the  roach  and  miller's- 
thumb,  and  robbed  the  moorhen's  nest  in  the  little  brooks. 
Consistent  after  a  strange  fashion  with  this  hostility  to 
wild  things  was  his  instinct  against  petting  them.  He 
kept  silk-worms,  having  a  mulberry-tree  at  hand  ;  but 
'  all  the  grasses  of  the  meadow, 'f  he  says,  '  were  my  pets, 
I  loved  them  all ;  and  perhaps  that  was  why  I  never  had 
a  "  pet,"  never  cultivated  a  flower,  never  kept  a  caged 
bird,  or  any  creature.  Why  keep  pets  when  every  wild, 
free  hawk  that  passed  overhead  in  the  air  was  mine  ?  I 
joyed  in  his  swift,  careless  flight,  in  the  throw  of  his 
pinions,  in  his  rush  over  the  elms  and  miles  of  woodland  ; 
it  was  happiness  to  see  his  unchecked  life.  What  more 
beautiful  than  the  sweep  and  curve  of  his  going  through 
the  azure  sky  ?  These  were  my  pets,  and  all  the  grass.' 
Before  he  had  any  conscious  thought  it  was  a  delight  to 
find  the  flowers  and  take  them  home,  snapping  off  also 
large  green  sprays  and  massy  tree-bloom.  Consistent,  too, 
is  the  way  in  which  he  saw,  so  as  to  remember  for  ever, 
the  yellow-hammer  on  the  ash  bough  singing  in  the  sun  :  J 
'  This  one  yellow-hammer  still  sits  on  the  ash-branch  in 
Stewart's  Mash  over  the  sward,  singing  in  the  sun,  his 
feathers  wet  with  colour,  the  same  sun-song,  and  will  sing 
to  me  so  long  as  the  heart  shall  beat.' 

Callous  and  sensitive,  he  was  not  only  dreamy,  but 
fiery  too,  and  the  impatient  irritability  of  Bevis  comes 
straight  from  life.  Food,  too,  was  sweet  between  his 
teeth,  or  those  '  cogs  ' — '  indentations  like  a  cogged 
wheel '  round  the  loaf — stuck  over  with  pats  of  fresh 
butter  would  not  have  lingered  so  in  memory,  and.  with 
them,  the  apples  up  in  the  attic,  of  which  he  stole  the 
largest  with  great  deliberation.  Once,  perhaps,  the  farm- 
waggon  must  have  taken  him  a  long  way  by  the  south- 
ward road  over  the  Downs  ;  and  he  must  have  been  told 

*  Bevis.  -j-  '  Hours  of  Spring,'  Field  and  Hedgerow. 

X  *  Wild  Flowers,'  Opcti  Air. 


From  a  photograph. 


RICHARD  JEFFERIES 
as  a  boy. 


p.  38. 


CHILDHOOD  AT  COATE  FARM  39 

that  over  there  lay  Southampton  and  the  sea,  for  not  once 
or  twice  only  is  it  mentioned  that  the  Marlborough  road 
'  led  towards  the  ships,'  sixty  miles  off.  And  on  one  of 
these  early  days,  I  think,  he  saw  a  skeleton  disinterred  by 
the  brook,  the  '  Roman  brook  '  by  Wanborough  Nythe. 
He  describes  such  a  disinterment  made  accidentally  by 
a  horse,  and  the  skeleton  haunts  him  in  '  The  Gamekeeper,' 
in  '  Meadow  Thoughts,'  in  '  The  Story  of  My  Heart,'  and 
elsewhere.  One  sorrowful  impression  of  this  kind  can 
furnish  an  acid  by  means  of  which  even  joyous  things  bite 
deeper  into  the  brain. 

I  do  not  know  how  early  he  went  to  the  sea,  but  he 
visited  the  Lewes  Downs  as  a  child,  and  was  taken  to  the 
shore,  probably  at  Eastbourne,  Worthing,  and  Brighton, 
by  his  aunt  and  uncle,  the  Harrilds.  When  he  was  a 
little  child  he  went  to  London,  and  stayed  for  months  at 
a  time  with  the  Harrilds  at  Shanklin  Villa,  Sydenham. 
There  he  went  to  a  small  private  school,  and  was  a  '  good  ' 
and  docile,  but  not  a  brilliant,  child.  He  was  fond  of 
drawing  what  he  saw  with  much  laboured  precision. 
Taken  to  lengthy  religious  meetings  at  Exeter  Hall,  he 
kept  himself  happy  in  the  crowd  with  his  pencil  and 
paper.  He  sat  quietly  for  hours  with  any  picture-books, 
such  as  Punch. 

Very  soon  he  was  a  fisherman  in  the  brook,  and  then 
in  the  Reservoir.  In  1856,  before  he  was  eight,  he  wrote 
that  he  had  been  '  out  shooting  with  papa.  We  shot 
several  Rabbits.  I  have  rowed  the  Boat  from  one  end 
of  the  water  to  the  other  with  ^lama  and  two  others.  I 
have  caught  some  fishes,  but  they  are  dead.'*  Before 
he  was  nine,  he  was  '  climbing  trees,  shooting,  fishing, 
swinging,  blowing  my  trumpet  all  over  the  place,  and  up 
to  all  sorts  of  tricks. 'f    Three  months  later  he  wrote  :  J 

'  I  have  been  on  the  Reservoir  many  times,  and  out 
with  Papa  shooting  rabbits  to  Hodson,  and  have  shot  one 
myself.  ...     I  should  like  to  come  and  see  you  again  soon. 

*  To  Mrs.  Harrild.  f  To  the  same,  July  2,  1857. 

To  the  same,  October  ig,  1857. 


40         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

Papa  says  I  cannot  run  about  here  much  longer  when  it  is 
wet  and  dirty.     I  must  go  away  to  school.' 

When  at  home  his  schooling  was  irregular  at  first. 
Staying  at  Sydenham  for  months  at  a  time,  it  was  im- 
possible that  his  dreaming  father  should  see  that  he  went 
to  school  as  soon  as  he  returned.  But  James  Jefferies 
used  to  read  and  explain  Shakespeare  and  the  Bible  to  the 
children,  and  taught  them  what  he  knew  of  natural 
history.  Coate  Reservoir,  and  the  fields  and  farmyard, 
trained  and  fed  the  child's  eyes  and  ears  in  the  course 
of  collecting  the  forty  kinds  of  eggs  which  hung  in  the 
summer-house.  He  inherited  his  father's  handiness  with 
tools,  and  he  may  well  have  made  a  gun,  as  Bevis  did, 
with  the  blacksmith's  lielp.  That  he  fitted  up  one  of  the 
craft  on  the  Reservoir  with  sails  is  certain  ;  for  I  have  met 
'  Molly  the  milkmaid,'  who  stitched  them  after  he  had 
cut  them  to  the  right  shape.  '  Everybody  does  everything 
for  you,'  said  Mark  to  Bevis  ;  and  it  seems  as  if  the  boy 
had  a  sharp  will  that  went  straight  to  its  end.  '  Molly  * 
did  many  things  for  him,  and  remembers  driving  a  two- 
pronged  fork  through  an  eel  that  she  might  skin  it  alive 
at  his  request,  for  he  had  never  seen  that  rite  before. 
His  father  taught  him  to  swim,  and  the  method,  if  it  was 
that  described  in  '  Bevis,'  could  hardly  have  been  bettered. 

What  he  could  not  get  without  money  he  usually  had 
to  do  without,  and  as  a  big  boy  he  had  to  beg  a  good  deal 
for  threepence.  But  at  first  that  mattered  little,  as  his 
tastes  were  those  of  an  ordinary  boy,  playing  at  marbles 
when  he  was  past  eleven,  begging  fireworks  from  his  aunt 
when  he  was  thirteen. 

In  May,  i860,  he  was  at  school,  and  '  in  the  Rule  of 
Three  now,  which  I  like  very  mucli.'  This  letter  is 
characteristic  enough  to  quote  :* 

'  I  suppose  you  have  heard  the  cuckoo  before  this. 
Last  night  three  came  .up  into  a  tree  under  which  I  was 
standing.  I  have  robbed  31  birds'  eggs  already,  chiefly 
thrushes.  ...     I  have  made  a  sundial,  and  I  can  tell  the 

♦  To  Mrs.  Harrild,  May  7,  i860. 


CHILDHOOD  AT  COATE  FARM  41 

time  by  it.  .  .  .  How  are  you  off  for  potatoes  now  ? 
How  is  J  ip  now  and  the  mare  and  the  little  canary  getting 
on  ?  .  .  .  I  must  conclude  has  it  is  very  near  8  o'clock, 
and  must  be  off  to  school.' 

It  would  take  a  rambling  boy  at  least  an  hour  to  cross 
the  fields  from  Coate  Farm  to  a  Swindon  School.  A  little 
later  he  was  going  to  '  the  Miss  Cowles/  apparently  to 
school,  for  two  hours  a  day  on  five  days  of  the  week.  His 
handwritmg  varied  very  much  at  this  period,  showing 
self-consciousness.  If  in  1861  he  was  being  taught  by 
*  the  Miss  Cowles,'  he  was  certainly  for  some  time  under  Mr. 
Fentiman,  a  Plymouth  Brother,  who  kept  a  school  in  Short 
Edge,  or  Devizes  Road,  and  taught  English,  mathematics, 
French,  and  Latin.  There  were  about  thirty  boys,  sons  of 
farmers,  architects,  bank-managers,  tradesmen.  Jefferies 
was  noticeable  there  chiefly  for  being  quiet,  dreamy,  and 
reserved  ;  one  says,  '  not  particularly  amiable,  somewhat 
supercilious,  not  caring  much,  if  at  all,  for  outdoor  games  '* 
— i.e.,  for  such  rigid  games  as  cricket.  Mr.  Fentiman 
had  himself  been  a  boy,  and  had  set  up  wigwams  and  raged 
on  the  warpath,  and  he  lent  Fenimore  Cooper's  '  Leather- 
stocking  '  tales  to  Jefferies,  and  thus  helped  him  to  the 
notion  of  camping  out  and  playing  at  Indians  on  the 
shores  of  the  Reservoir  and  on  the  Hodson  Ground. 

He  spent  many  hours  in  this  field  at  Hodson  with  his 
gun,  and  so  became  friendly  with  Haylock,  the  Burderop 
keeper,  who  lived  in  Hodson  Bottom.  This  man  had  a 
reputation  on  account  of  the  ferocity  and  licence  of  his 
language  when  he  caught  trespassers.  He  would  give 
them  plenty  of  '  tongue-pie,'  says  an  old  victim,  but 
would  never  prosecute.  He  wore  a  tall  beaver  hat,  and 
gave  warning  as  he  entered  a  copse  by  coughing  loud, 
very  loud.  He  had  a  notorious  hatred  of  parsons, 
whether  they  came  shooting  with  his  master  or  not. 
Jefferies  helped  him  in  keeping  down,  the  vermin,  and 
earned  some  privileges  in  return.  The  Hodson  field  was 
a  good  place  for  a  wire,  and  the  Burderop  Woods  made 
*  '  Forbears  of  Richard  Jefferies.' 


42         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

a  perfect  back-garden  for  the  boy,  as  they  were  preserved 
against  nearly  everybody  else.  They  included  dense, 
silent  wood,  more  open  undergrowth,  deep  hedges,  moist 
sedge,  and  were  rich  in  many  kinds  of  birds  except  birds  of 
prey,  although  these  visited  the  place  persistently.  Among 
the  withies  of  the  little  Reservoir  there  were  snipe  to  be 
had  ;  and  in  the  winter  great  crested  grebes  and  divers 
came  with  many  other  water-birds  to  the  main  Reservoir. 

Other  instructors  the  boy  had  in  a  greyhound  and  in 
Juno,  the  pointer,  who  used  to  take  fish  out  of  the  farm- 
yard trough  without  hurting  them.  Job  Brown  and 
others  set  him  thinking  about  snares  for  fish,  feather,  and 
fur. 

If  he  was  becoming  a  keen  and  hardened  shooter, 
sharing  the  sportsman's  tenuous  emotion  of  loving  the 
hare  that  he  has  killed,  he  was  a  good  deal  more  also. 
Watching  in  hedges,  or  up  in  trees,  or  in  the  punt,  he 
trained  his  fine,  restless  eyes  to  their  craft  : 

'  [Sitting  in  a  tree]  like  so  many  slender  webs,  his  lines 
of  sight  thus  drawn  through  mere  chinks  of  foliage  radi- 
ated from  a  central  spot,  and  at  the  end  of  each  he  seemed 
as  if  he  could  feel  if  anything  moved  as  much  as  he  could 
see  it.  Each  of  these  webs  strained  at  his  weary  mind, 
and  even  in  the  shade  the  strong  glare  of  the  summer 
noon  pressed  heavily  on  his  eyelids.' 

In  fact,  he  fell  asleep.  He  learned  to  know  the  roads 
by  which  the  birds  travelled,  so  that  he  said  (in  '  Wild 
Life  in  a  Southern  County  ')  he  thought  he  could  draw 
a  map  of  the  fields,  and  show  the  routes  and  resorts  of 
birds  and  beasts  ;  and  it  was  probably  he  that  discovered 
the  ice-blink  on  Coate  Reservoir — the  invisible  mist  above 
the  ice  which  yet  concealed  a  lantern  laid  upon  it,  unless 
the  watcher  lifted  his  head  well  above  the  surface.  Several 
of  his  contemporaries  recall  his  skill  and  energy  in  skating. 
He  and  his  younger,  but  robuster  and  more  daring  brother, 
Harry,  had  a  reputation  for  their  skating  which  points  to 
a  youth  well  spent  upon  Reservoir  and  Canal. 

Life  at  home  was  often  of  a  delicious  quiet,  and  before 


CHILDHOOD  AT  COATE  FARM  43 

he  learned  about  Time  there  must  have  been  many 
moments  like  that  which  lingered  to  inspire  such  pas- 
sages as  that  in  '  Round  about  a  Great  Estate,'  where 
the  damask  rose  opens  its  petals,  the  strawberries  are  ripe, 
and  '  young  Aaron  '  turns  the  blue-painted  barrel-churn, 
while  the  finches  call  in  the  plum-trees.  Not  yet  had  his 
father's  and  mother's  moods  the  enduring  excuse  that  the 
farm  was  going  surely  to  the  bad  ;  not  yet  had  James 
Jefferies,  his  father  dead,  and  all  hope  of  more  help  de- 
parted, begun  to  let  things  that  were  wrong  go  yet  more 
wrong,  to  mortgage  the  farm,  and  to  dream,  until  he  had 
to  leave  and  become  a  gardener  in  Bath.  His  mother 
was  often  gay,  and  his  father  genial  and  at  ease  in  his 
garden,  and  in  these  big,  early,  silent  spaces  of  life  the 
boy's  soul  could  turn  about  and  grow.  It  was,  perhaps, 
at  the  age  of  fifteen — '  so  long  since  that  I  have  forgotten 
the  date,'  as  he  wrote  in  1883 — that  he  used  to  go  every 
morning,  where,  hidden  by  elm-trees,  he  could  see  the  sun 
rise,  or  watch  the  early  eastern  sky  : 

'  Involuntarily  I  drew  a  long  breath,  then  I  breathed 
slowly.  My  thought,  or  inner  consciousness,  went  up 
through  the  illumined  sky,  and  I  was  lost  in  a  moment  of 
exaltation.  This  only  lasted  a  very  short  time,  perhaps 
only  part  of  a  second,  and  while  it  lasted  there  was  no 
formulated  wish.  I  was  absorbed  ;  I  drank  the  beauty  of 
the  morning  ;  I  was  exalted.' 

At  or  near  the  same  time  came  those  richer  growths  of 
the  dream  state  and  extended,  if  not  '  cosmic,'  conscious- 
ness' mentioned  in  '  Bevis,'  where,  too,  he  speaks  of  the 
exact  position  of  the  rising  sun,  '  between  the  young  oak 
and  the  third  group  of  elms  '  : — 

'  The  sward  on  the  path  on  which  Bevis  used  to  lie  and 
gaze  up  in  the  summer  evening  was  real  and  tangible  ; 
the  earth  under  was  real ;  and  so,  too,  the  elms,  the  oak, 
the  ash-trees,  were  real  and  tangible — things  to  be 
touched,  and  known  to  be.  Now,  like  these,  the  mind, 
stepping  from  the  one  to  the  other,  knew  and  almost  felt 
the  stars  to  be  real,  and  not  mere  specks  of  light,  but 


44         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

things  that  were  there  by  day  over  the  ehns  as  well  as  by 
night,  and  not  apparitions  of  the  evening  departing  at  the 
twittering  of  the  swallows.  They  were  real,  and  the 
touch  of  his  mind  felt  to  them. 

'  He  could  not,  as  he  reclined  on  the  garden  path  by  the 
strawberries,  physically  reach  to  and  feel  the  oak  ;  but  he 
could  feel  the  oak  in  his  mind,  and  so  from  the  oak,  step- 
ping beyond  it,  he  felt  the  stars.  They  were  always  there 
by  day  as  well  as  by  night.  .  .  . 

'  The  heavens  were  as  much  a  part  of  life  as  tlie  elms, 
the  oak,  the  house,  the  garden  and  orchard,  the  meadow 
and  the  brook.  They  were  no  more  separated  than  the 
furniture  of  the  parlour,  than  the  old  oak  chair  where  he 
sat,  and  saw  the  new  moon  shine  over  the  mulberry-tree. 
They  were  neither  above  nor  beneath,  they  were  in  the 
same  place  with  him  ;  just  as  when  you  walk  in  the  wood 
the  trees  are  all  about  you,  on  a  plane  with  you,  so  he 
felt  the  constellations  and  the  sun  on  a  plane  with  him, 
and  that  he  was  moving  among  them  as  the  earth  rolled 
on,  like  them,  with  them,  in  the  stream  of  space. 

'  The  day  did  not  shut  off  the  stars,  the  night  did  not 
shut  off  the  sun  ;  they  were  always  there.  Not  that  he 
always  thought  of  them,  but  they  were  never  dismissed. 
When  he  listened  to  the  greenfinches  sweetly  calling  in  the 
hawthorn,  or  when  he  read  his  books,  poring  over  the 
"Odyssey,"  with  the  sunshine  on  the  wall,  they  were  always 
there  ;  there  was  no  severance.  Bevis  lived  not  only  out 
to  the  finches  and  the  swallows,  to  the  far-away  hills,  but 
he  lived  out  and  felt  out  to  the  sk3^ 

'  It  was  living,  not  thinking.  He  lived  it,  never  think- 
ing, as  the  finches  live  their  sunny  life  in  the  happy 
days  of  June.  There  was  magic  in  everything,  blades 
of  grass  and  stars,  the  sun  and  the  stones  upon  the 
ground.' 

There  is  another  passage  in  '  Bevis  '  where  he  '  became 
silent  and  fell  into  one  of  his  dream  states — when,  as  Mark 
said,  he  was  like  a  tree  ';  he  was  '  lost — something  seemed 
to  take  him  out  of  himself ';  and  another  where  he  sat 


CHILDHOOD  AT  COATE  FARM  45 

on  the  top  of  a  hill  and  was  '  lost  in  his  dreamy  mood/ 
and  '  he  did  not  think,  he  felt.' 

He  had  become  a  great  reader,  too.  I  have  seen  his 
copy  of  '  Percy's  Reliques,'  with  '  J.  R.  Jefferies,  1863,' 
on  the  fiy-leaf.  The  ballad  of  King  Estmere  is  often  on 
Bevis's  lips.  At  Coate  Farm  there  were  many  old  books, 
and  many  more  at  the  grandfather's  house  in  Swindon, 
bound  in  eighteenth-century  leather  and  early  nineteenth- 
century  boards.  The  children  had  the  run  of  these,  and 
that  is  perhaps  why  so  few  of  them  survive.  There  was 
certainly  a  Culpeper,  loved — before  Linnaeus  and  Gerarde 
— for  his  poisons  and  fantastic  properties — Orchis  Mas- 
cula,  for  example,  credited  with  the  power  to  call  up  the 
passion  of  love.'*  There  would  be  books  like  that  '  small 
quarto,  a.d.  1650,  a  kind  of  calendar  of  astrology,  medi- 
cine, and  agriculture,  telling  the  farmer  when  the  conjunc- 
tion of  the  planets  was  favourable  for  purchasing  stock  or 
sowing  seed.'t  Favourites  also  were  the  '  Odyssey,'  in,  I 
believe,  James  Morrice's  translation,  as  well  as  Pope's;  'Don 
Quixote,'  Shakespeare's  poems,  Filmore's  '  Faust.'  These 
are  mentioned  again  and  again,  especially  the  '  Odyssey  ' 
and  '  Faust.'  There  was  an  ancient  encyclopaedia,  with  a 
page  '  of  chemical  signs  and  those  used  by  the  alchemists, 
some  of  which  he  had  copied  off  for  magic  ';  and  one  giving 
all  the  alphabets — '  Coptic,  Gothic,  Ethiopic,  Syriac,  and 
so  on ';  and  '  the  Arabic  took  his  fancy  as  the  most  mys- 
terious— the  sweeping  curves,  the  quivering  lines,  the  blots 
where  the  reed  pen  thickened,  there  was  no  knowing 
what  such  writing  might  not  mean. 'J  The  encyclopaedia 
often  lay  open  at  '  Magic,'  and  his  mind — Bevis's  mind — 
worked  from  some  of  the  imtruths  and  half-truths  to  the 
truth :— § 

'"  .  .  .  I  wish  we  could  get  a  magic  writing.  Then  we 
could  do  anything,  and  we  could  know  all  the  secrets." 

'  "  What  secrets  ?" 

'  "  Why,  all  these  things  have  secrets." 

♦  Toilers  o^ the  Field.  \  Ibid.  %  Greene  Feme  Farm. 

§  Bevis. 


46         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

'"AU?" 

'  "  AU,"  said  Bevis,  looking  round,  and  pointing  with  an 
arrow  in  his  hand.  "  All  the  trees,  and  all  the  stones, 
and  all  the  flowers "  ' 

'  The  magic  of  the  past,'  he  wrote,  '  always  had  a 
charm  for  me.  I  had  learned  to  know  the  lines  ...  so 
that  the  "  gips  "  could  tell  me  nothing  new.'*  Then  there 
was  '  Kcenigsmark  the  Robber.'  '  Pilgrim's  Progress  ' 
was  given  to  him  by  his  Uncle  and  Aunt  Harrild  in  1858. 
Not  much  later  came  the  many  translations  from  the 
poets  and  others  which  Felise  read — '  the  beautiful 
memoirs  of  Socrates,  some  parts  of  Plato,  most  of  the 
histories,  and  the  higher  and  purer  poets.'  He  mentions 
also  Sophocles,  Diogenes  Laertius'  '  Lives  of  the  Philo- 
sophers,' Athenaeus  and  Aristotle.  As  early  as  1867  he 
quoted  Rabelais,  David  Lindsay,  and  several  chroniclers. 
From  a  book  or  from  his  father,  and  from  his  nights  out  of 
doors,  he  learned  to  know  the  stars  as  he  did  the  hamlet 
houses  and  elms. 

The  first  attraction  of  books  for  him  was  that  of  the 
unusual,  the  adventurous,  the  antique.  '  Ulysses,'  he 
says,  '  was  ever  my  pattern  and  model. 'f  He  gloated 
over  the  poisons  of  Culpeper.  He  arranged  fights  on  '  The 
Plain,'  and  had  '  The  Pathfinder '  in  his  mind.  His 
father  told  him,  too,  of  his  adventure  twenty  years  ago. 
Upon  the  Downs  he  felt  the  call  of  the  sea.  He  had,  too, 
adventurous  friends,  boys  not  at  all  dreamy,  but  full  of 
noise  and  energy.  One  of  these  lived  over  the  way  at 
SnodshiU  Farm — his  cousin,  James  Cox.  And  one  day 
they  were  missed  together.  Jimmy  was  the  elder,  and 
had  started  work  in  the  Great  Western  Railway  Works 
at  Swindon,  and  could  save  a  little  money  ;  so  they  crossed 
the  Channel  into  France,  with  Moscow  dimly  desirable 
and  accessible  over  the  hills  and  rivers  and  plains.  But 
the  French  he  learned  at  Swindon  did  not  take  Jefferies 
far,  and  they  returned  in  a  short  time  to  England.     Next 

*  Amateur  Poacher.  ■)■  2 bid. 


CHILDHOOD  AT  COATE  FARM  47 

they  tried  Liverpool,  and  spent  all  their  money  in  tickets 
to  America  which  did  not  cover  their  food.  They  had  to 
return.  Jimmy  was  soon  off  again,  and  never  returned 
to  the  old  life,  nor,  perhaps,  did  Jefferies,  in  quite  the  old 
way.  The  one  has  been  in  Australia  these  thirty  years  ; 
Jefferies  had  set  his  foot  on  a  road  that  was  to  lead  to 
at  least  as  distant  a  land. 

This  adventure — in  or  about  1864 — may  have  been 
inspired  by  increasing  difficulties  at  home.  The  place 
was  '  falling  to  decay,  while  at  the  same  time  it  seemed  to 
be  flowing  with  milk  and  honey.'*  '  There  are  no  wolves,' 
he  wrote,  '  like  those  debt  sends  against  a  house. 'f  The 
food  was  good  and  plenteous,  but  there  was  no  ready 
money.  The  farm  was  not  prospering.  The  cattle  plague 
came  in  1865,  after  the  three  great  corn  harvests  of  1863, 
1864,  and  1865.  Though  farmers'  clubs  were  becoming 
more  and  more  active  and  numerous,  and  the  progress  in 
agricultural  machinery  went  rapidly  on,  Coate  Farm  and 
the  farmer,  whose  head  wore  a  mark  on  the  panel  against 
which  it  leaned  to  think,  were  none  the  better.  Richard 
had  by  this  time  left  school  for  good,  and  though 
he  was  reading,  rambling,  and  thinking,  he  was  earning 
no  money,  except  a  few  shillings  for  himself,  made  by 
selling  hares  which  he  snared  or  shot.  The  long,  idle  lad 
was  beginning  to  be  noticed  for  his  idleness,  his  walks  to 
Marlborough  Forest,  his  everlasting  loafing  with  a  gun. 
Mr.  Galley,  at  Burderop  Park,  used  to  say  :  '  That  young 
Jefferies  is  not  the  sort  of  fellow  you  want  hanging  about 
in  your  covers.'  His  father  felt  that  he  had  let  his  son 
slip  out  of  his  knowledge,  and  used  to  point  with  disgust 
to  '  our  Dick  poking  about  in  them  hedges.'  Nor  would 
he  do  any  farm-work  worth  speaking  of.  In  a  later  letter 
he  said  that  he  had  helped  on  the  farm,  and  could  lend  a 
hand  at  almost  anything  ;  but  the  only  work  he  cared  to 
do  was  that  of  chopping  wood  or  splitting  it  with  betel 
and  wedges  to  make  posts  and  rails.  The  flint  hauliers 
on  the  Downs  used  to  see  him  going  about  as  if  he  were 

*  After  London.  \  Amaryllis  at  the  Fair. 


48         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

'  looking  for  summat,'  or  as  if  he  *  weren't  doing  any 
work.'  He  was,  says  another,  admiring  his  capacity  for 
doing  apparently  nothing,  '  cut  out  for  a  gentleman  if 
only  there  had  been  money.'  He  was  in  a  ferment  of  un- 
divined  and  growing  powers  which  isolated  him,  of  ambi- 
tions, of  needs,  which  presents  of  books  from  his  aunt 
could  not  satisfy.  His  father  was  not  a  man  of  books, 
though  far  from  illiterate.  For  a  time  the  boy  would  get 
into  the  habit  of  overlooking  the  wisdom  of  the  unlearned. 
Probably  he  had  begun  to  write  as  early  as  1864,  ^^^  ^ 
letter  of  that  year  shows  the  beginning  of  self-conscious- 
ness about  style.* 

But  however  bitter  the  days  of  poverty,  loneliness, 
misunderstanding,  and  constraint,  the  time  when  he  was 
sixteen  and  seventeen  had  probably  as  great  sweetness 
as  bitterness,  since  the  two  go  together  in  their  extremes 
at  least  as  much  at  that  as  at  any  other  age.  They  say 
that,  though  he  often  carried  his  gun,  he  was  less  and  less 
fond  of  shooting  after  he  was  fifteen  or  so.  Yet  he  would 
still  bring  home  a  snipe  on  a  frosty  day,  or  a  jay's  wing 
in  the  spring  from  Burderop.  He  hung  about  on  stiles  by 
Maxell  and  Great  Maxell  fields,  on  the  footpath  to  Bad- 
bury  Lane,  or  by  the  brooks,  or  on  the  Reservoir,  or  on 
the  Downs,  and  dreamed  and  thought.  With  his  linger 
on  the  trigger,  he  '  hesitated,  dropped  the  barrel,  and 
watched  the  beautiful  bird,'  and  '  that  watching  so  often 
stayed  the  shot  that  at  last  it  grew  to  be  a  habit.  .  .  . 
Time  after  time  I  have  flushed  partridges  without  firing, 
and  have  let  the  hare  bound  over  the  furrow  free.'f  And 
yet  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  he  shared  little  John's 
delight  in  '  wristing  '  the  rabbit's  neck,  '  as  the  neck  gave 
with  a  sudden  looseness,  and  in  a  moment  what  had  been 
a  living,  straining  creature  became  limp. 'J  He  tells  us 
that  he  shot  many  kingfishers  and  herons  ;  he  shot  the 
redwing  as  it  sang,  to  make  quite  sure  of  it.  I  dare  say 
the  eagle  which  he  once  saw  going  over  was  lucky  in  being 
at  a  great  height. 

•  To  Mrs.  llarrild,  October  27,  1864.  f  Amateur  Poacher. 

I  Ibid. 


CHILDHOOD  AT  COATE  FARM  49 

All  this — the  hunting,  the  reading,  the  brooding — was 
filling  his  brain,  clearing  and  subtilizing  his  eye.     The 
clearness  of  the  physical  is  allied  to  the  penetration  of 
the  spiritual  vision.     For  both  are  nourished  to  their 
perfect  flowering  by  the  habit  of  concentration.     To  see 
a  thing  as  clearly  as  he  saw  the  sun-painted  yellow- 
hammer  in  Stewart's  Mash  is  part  of  the  office  of  the 
imagination.     Imagination  is  no  more  than  the  making 
of  graven  images,  whether  of  things  on  the  earth  or  in 
the  mind.     To  make  them,  clear  concentrated  sight  and 
patient  mind  are  the  most  necessary  things  after  love  ;  and 
these  two  are  the  children  of  love.     With  the  majority, 
love,    accompanying   and   giving   birth    to    imagination, 
reaches  its  intensity  only  once,  and  that  briefly,  in  a  life- 
time ;  and  if  they  are  ever  again  to  know  imagination, 
it  is  through  fear,  as  when  a  tall  flame  shoots  up  before 
the  eyes,  or  through  sudden  pain  or  anger  giving  their 
faces  an  honest  energy  of  expression,  and  their  lips,  per- 
haps, a  power  of  telling  speech.     Yet  more  rare  is  the 
power  of  repeating  these  images  by  music  or  language  or 
carved  stone.     It  is  those  who  can  do  so  who  alone  are, 
as  a  rule,  aware  that  human  life,  nature,  and  art  are  every 
moment  continuing  and  augmenting  the  Creation — making 
to-day  the  first  day,  and  this  field  Eden,  annihilating  time 
— so  that  each  moment  all  things  are  fresh  and  the  sun 
has  not  drunken  the  blessed  dew  from  off  their  bloom. 
The  seeing  eye  of  child  or  lover,  the  poet's  verse,  the 
musician's   melody,  add   thus   continually   to  the  rich- 
ness of  the  universe.     Jefferies  early  possessed  such  an 
eye,  such   an   imagination,  though  not  for  many  years 
could  he  reveal  some  of  its  images  by  means  of  words. 
In  fact,  he  was  very  soon  to  bear  witness  to  the  pitiful 
truth  that  the  imagination  does  not  supply  the  words 
that  shall  be  its  expression  ;  he  was  to  fiU  much  paper  with 
words  that  revealed  almost  nothing  of  his  inner  and  little 
more  of  his  outer  life. 


CHAPTER  IV 

YOUTH   AND    EARLY    MANHOOD— REPORTING— SHORT 
STORIES— PAMPHLETS— ARCH/EOLOGY 

Early  in  March,  1866,  soon  after  he  was  seventeen, 
Jefferies  wrote  to  Mrs.  Harrild  to  say  that  he  had  just 
begun  to  work  on  the  North  Wilts  Herald,  a  new  Con- 
servative paper,  published  at  Swindon.  He  had  sent 
her  a  copy  of  the  paper,  by  which,  he  says,  she 
might  guess  that  his  connection  with  it  had  already 
commenced.  He  imagines  that  he  will  like  his  place, 
and  up  to  the  present  moment  he  does  more — he  enjoys  it ; 
his  duties  are  '  multifarious — reporting,  correcting  manu- 
script and  proofs,  with  a  spice  of  reviewing  and  an  un- 
limited amount  of  condensation.'  This  work  gave  him  a 
little  money,  sent  him  out  of  doors  in  many  directions, 
and  compelled  him  to  use  his  pen  in  the  expression  of  his 
own  or  other  people's  knowledge  and  ideas.  But  that  he 
had  already  had  some  practice  is  certain  ;  for,  poor  as  are 
his  stories  published  in  the  North  Wilts  of  this  period, 
they  are  not  beginnings,  nor  even  are  the  verses,  like  those 
'  To  a  Fashionable  Bonnet,'  ending  : 

'  Ah,  girls  are  girls,  and  will  be  girls 
In  spite  of  matrons  gray  ; 
Then  why  restrain  the  flowing  curls 
When  all  for  freedom  pray  ?' 

The  stories  have  much  facility  and  exuberance  of  traslii- 
ness,  of  which  this  from  '  Henrique  Beaumont  '*  is  no 
unjust  example  : 

'  A  young  man  knelt  at  the  feet  of  a  maiden,  whom  he 
*  Norlh  Wilts  Herald. 
50 


YOUTH  AND  EARLY  WRITINGS  51 

endeavoured  to  prevent  rising  from  an  ottoman  by  de- 
taining her  hand  in  his.  "  Rowland  Austin,"  muttered 
Henrique,  setting  his  teeth. 

'  "  Unhand  me,  sir,"  said  the  maiden,  while  a  rosy  flush 
mantled  her  fair  forehead,  a  glance  of  rising  indignation 
shot  from  her  deep  blue  eyes,  and  her  lips  quivered.' 

Here  occurs  his  first  sketch  of  a  Wiltshire  miller,  but 
not  a  promising  one.  'Who  will  Win?'  has  a  cynical 
psychological  description  of  one  who  has  seen  a  beauty 
pass  in  a  carriage,  and  has  loved  her  at  first  sight.  He 
did  not  follow  her,  firstly,  because  the  carriage  went  too 
fast ;  secondly,  on  account  of  the  heat ;  thirdly,  because 
it  might  return  to  whence  it  started  ;  fourthly,  because  he 
wished  to  know  the  name  of  the  inmate,  which  was  not 
pasted  up  on  the  door.  In  this  tale  there  is  fighting  and 
shipwreck  ;  the  hero  is  suspended  over  a  precipice  in  the 
folds  of  a  boa  ;  the  end  is  marriage.  '  Masked  '*  is  about 
a  doctor  who  puts  poison  in  the  intestines  of  a  patient  of 
his  rival  ('  graceful,  easy,  "interesting,"  as  the  ladies  would 
put  it  '),  and  an  actress  of  unquestionable  virtue,  in 
whom  '  contact  with  the  boards  had  not  depreciated  her 
nature.'  Such  stories  are  probably  the  unconsciously 
insincere  utterance  of  a  truly  romantic  nature.  '  A 
Strange  Story  'f  is  nearer  to  the  mature  Jefferies.  It 
refers  to  '  yonder  camp-crowned  hill,'  and  begins  with 
some  conversation  between  two  men  (Roderick  and  Gerald 
Fitzhugh)  as  to  why  the  White  Horse,  the  fosse  and 
ramparts  of  the  ancient  camp,  and  the  time-worn  barrow, 
*  should  have  power  to  render  naught  the  abyss  of  a 
thousand  years,  and  call  up  "  deeds  half  hidden  in  the  mist 
of  years,"  while  yet  the  ear  is  conscious  of  the  cooing  of 
doves,  the  eye  of  the  passing  rook  and  the  hare  in  the  fern.' 
There  is  an  apparition  of  two  persons  in  a  churchyard — 
one  being  then  some  way  off  in  the  seer's  house,  the  other 
far  away.  The  seer  dies  soon,  after  expressing  a  belief 
that  they  would  meet  again  ;  there  is,  too,  a  vague  pro- 
phecy fulfilled.  '  T.  T.  T.'  J  is  in  yet  another  vein, 
♦  North  Wilts  Herald.  f  Ibid.  %  Ibid. 

4—2 


52         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

concerning  a  squire's  wife  who  advocates  '  tea  and  toast  as 
a  cure  for  all  evils,'  and  so  loses  all  her  servants  except 
one,  who  can  get  at  the  brandy.  It  is  jaunty  and  mock- 
heroic,  probably  with  local  allusions.  '  Traits  of  the 
Olden  Time,'*  belonging  to  the  same  year,  is  sensible  and 
genuine,  though  sententious.  It  touches  on  rural  sim- 
plicity, ignorance,  brutal  hospitality,  medicines,  Anglo- 
Saxon  forms  of  speech.  '  The  conversation  of  the  lower 
class  of  agriculturists,'  he  says,  '  sounds  like  a  dialogue  of 
the  Heptarchy.'  But  though  he  tells  us  that  '  the  milker 
sings  at  his  pail  even  when  his  breath  is  frozen  upon  his 
chin,'  he  mentions  but  one  song,  and  that  '  The  Leathern 
Bottel.'  All  through  the  instances  are  too  few  and  the 
generalizations  too  facile.  Had  this  article  been  singled 
out  and  praised  by  someone  of  credit,  the  writer  might 
have  developed  more  directly  towards  descriptions  of  the 
country  and  country  life.  But  insincerity  is  not  dis- 
ingenuousness,  and  that  facile,  expressionless  fiction, 
useless  as  it  is  to  us,  was,  in  part,  an  indulgence  to  his 
not  yet  understood  yearnings  which  they  might  otherwise 
have  lacked.  It  was  good  for  him  to  consider  the  lan- 
guage of  emotion,  even  if  he  failed  to  utter  his  own  ;  just 
as,  later  on,  it  was  good  for  him  to  indulge  in  '  The  Scarlet 
Shawl,'  because  it  satisfied  and  kept  alive  for  the  time 
being  the  spiritual  something  in  his  nature  as  competent 
articles  on  agriculture  could  not  do.  Even  so  may  it  be 
when  one  who  has  fallen  in  love  polishes  his  boots  to  a 
particular  brightness,  though  they  never  meet  his  mis- 
tress's eye.  It  is  quite  possible  that,  had  there  been 
no  '  Henrique  Beaumont '  and  '  Who  will  Win  ?'  there 
would  have  been  no  '  Dewy  Morn,'  no  '  Amaryllis,'  no 
'  Story  of  My  Heart.'  Right  through  the  early  period 
of  Jefferies'  life  these  two  elements,  the  observing  and 
informing,  and  the  emotional  and  spiritual,  remained 
side  by  side,  usually  distinct,  but  slowly  gathering  good- 
ness from  each  other,  until  at  last  the  boundary  vanished 
in  perfectly  aesthetic  expression.     His  handwriting  as  a 

♦  North  Wilts  Herald, 


YOUTH  AND  EARLY  WRITINGS  53 

youth  is  a  slight  indication  of  his  uncertainty  and  con- 
fusion ;  for  a  time  it  was  back-handed,  and  again  it  was 
a  compromise  between  writing  and  printing. 

There  were  more  of  these  tales  than  are  exposed  in 
'  Early  Fiction,'  and  Jefferies  had  hopes  that  his  Uncle 
Harrild  would  pass  them  on  to  the  editor  of  London 
Society,  a  journal  that  helped  to  relieve  the  rusticity  of 
Coate.  But  he  was  not  only  writing  tales,  reporting,  and 
correcting  proofs.  For  some  time  past  he  had  been 
reading  modern  science,  as  chance  brought  Darwin  or 
Lyell  along  ;  but  it  was  without  any  guidance  from  critics 
or  friends,  and  we  know  that  he  came  upon  White's 
'  Selborne,'  e.g.,  only  towards  the  end  of  his  life.  He  was 
reading  history,  too,  and  had  turned  archaeologist  and 
numismatist,  looking  out  for  signs  of  early  occupation  on 
the  face  of  the  earth,  for  coins,  epitaphs,  armorial  bearings, 
pedigrees,  legends,  architecture  in  the  churches,  manor- 
houses,  and  farms.  His  own  neighbourhood,  as  he  wrote 
in  July,  1867,  was  a  mine  for  an  antiquary.  He  threw 
over  his  school  belief  that  ancient  Britain  was  a  waste. 
The  Roman  and  British  coins,  arrow-heads,  tumuli,  camps, 
cannon-balls,  made  the  country  seem  '  alive  with  the 
dead,'  and  he  was  '  inclined  to  think  that  this  part  of 
North  Wilts,  at  least,  was  as  thickly  inhabited  of  yore  as 
it  is  now,  the  difference  being  only  in  the  spot  inhabited 
having  been  exchanged  for  another  more  adapted  to  the 
wants  of  the  times.'  He  read  especially  the  historians 
and  chroniclers  of  his  own  part  of  the  country,  and  picked 
up  all  kinds  of  knowledge  that  he  could  either  store  up 
or  set  forth  at  once  in  the  North  Wilts  Herald.  Before 
the  middle  of  1867  he  had  finished  a  series  of  twenty 
chapters  for  that  paper  on  tjhe  history  of  Malmesbury. 
There  he  quoted  from  Asser,  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth, 
David  Lindsay,  '  Hudibras,'  Byron,  Goethe,  Ossian,  and 
Longfellow's  '  King  Witlaf's  Drinking  Horn.'  But  he 
gave  his  medley  of  quotations  and  paraphrases  little 
vitality  by  passages  of  an  insecure  and  imitated  stateliness 
— as,  for  example  :  '  Certain  names  stand  out  in  the  mind 


54         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

— with  an  objective  reality,  like  sculpture.  Who  hears  of 
Homer,  without  remembering  the  Trojan  war  ;  of  Plato, 
without  in  imagination  listening  to  the  soft  sighing  of  the 
zephyrs  through  the  groves  of  Academus  ;  of  Romulus 
.  .  .'  or  by  the  reflection  that  '  Ink  alone  confers  immor- 
tality.' It  can  only  be  hoped  that  really  vital  knowledge 
gained  by  handling  this  legend  and  history  counter- 
balanced the  vexation  of  spirit. 

Before  the  end  of  1866  he  had  begun  the  series  of  his- 
torical and  descriptive  articles  on  Swindon  and  the 
neighbourhood  which  now  form  the  volume  entitled 
'  Jefferies'  Land.'  There  he  made  use  of  his  well-loved 
'  Ballad  of  King  Estmere  '  and  Drayton's  '  Dowsabell  ' 
(also  from  the  '  Reliques  '),  together  with  the  '  Iliad,' 
Herodotus,  Horace,  Pliny,  Rowe's  '  Lucan,'  Nennius, 
'  Domesday  Book,'  Richard  of  Cirencester,  Aubrey,  Clar- 
endon, Young,  Pope's  '  Essay  on  Man,'  Ossian,  and  the 
'  Philosophical  Magazine.'  The  chapters  were  better  than 
his  paper  needed,  and  they  are  a  fairly  clear  and  pictur- 
esque arrangement  of  history,  genealogy,  legend,  and  his 
own  observation  ;  yet  he  is  not  above  quoting  Richard  of 
Cirencester  as  an  authority  on  3600  B.C.  He  visited  places 
as  far  apart  as  Avebury,  Huish,  Aldbourne,  Ufhngton, 
Ashdown,  Highworth,  Braden  Wood,  Cricklade,  Fairford, 
Malmesbury,  and  Wootton  Bassett.  In  the  church  at 
Lydiard  Tregoze  he  wrote  : 

'  The  effect  of  these  numerous  monuments  to  departed 
greatness  is  very  solemn,  and  is  increased  by  the  dim  light 
from  the  stained-glass  windows.  Here  sleep  the  warrior 
and  the  statesman,  men  celebrated  in  their  day,  their 
names  in  all  men's  mouths,  now  only  known  by  the  epi- 
taph and  escutcheon.  Who  remembers  the  great  baron 
Tregoz  ?  Who  thinks  of  him  when  he  hears  of  Lydiard 
Tregoze  ?  Ewyas  is  still  less  remembered.  The  St.  John 
commemorated  by  Pope  runs  the  best  chance  of  immor- 
tality. Those  who  fought  with  double-handed  swords, 
with  battle-axe  and  lance,  have  long  been  forgotten  ;  it 
is  only  the  Muse  who  confers  immortality.     Ink  is  more 


YOUTH  AND  EARLY  WRITINGS  55 

durable  than  iron.  Yonder  hang  the  heavy  helmets  of  a 
forgotten  generation.  Who  remembers  the  wearers  ? 
None  but  the  genealogist,  and  he  only  after  much  cogita- 
tion.'* 

It  is  well  to  have  written  thus,  provided  that  no  trace 
of  having  done  so  remains.  For  the  rest,  he  informs, 
moralizes  several  times,  is  jocular,  but  hardly  rises  above 
the  competence  expected  in  such  journalism.  The 
writing  is  nearly  always  adequate,  but  there  is  nothing  yet 
that  is  Jefferies'  own,  and  he  finds  fault  with  Aubrey  for 
troubling  about  just  the  local  peculiarities  which  he  him- 
self was  afterwards  to  chronicle.  The  matter  was  not 
digested,  and  it  showed  little  more  than  the  docility  of 
mind  of  the  young  journalist.  Some  of  the  material  he 
used  later  ;  most  evaporated. 

'  When  about  eighteen,'  he  says  in  '  Nature  and  Books, 'f 
he  began  to  read  translations  from  the  literature  of 
Greece  and  Rome  :  first  came  Diogenes  Laertius'  '  Lives 
of  the  Philosophers,'  next  Plato,  then  Athenaeus  ;  and  he 
adds  that  between  seventy  and  eighty  of  the  '  hundred 
best  books  '  had  been  his  companions  almost  from  boy- 
hood, *  those  lacking  to  complete  the  number  being  chiefly 
ecclesiastical  or  Continental.'  He  could  forget  all  else 
that  he  had  read,  '  but  it  is  difficult  to  forget  these  ' 
[Greeks] '  even  when  I  will.'  Mrs.  Harrild  sent  him  books. 
William  Morris,  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Swindon 
Advertiser,  himself  a  hardy  spirit,  widely  and  genially 
versed  in  local  lore,  and  a  racy  writer,  used  to  lend  him 
books,  among  them  '  Les  Miserables.' 

Except  books,  art  had  little  to  offer  him  at  Swindon 
or  Coate.  He  heard  some  music,  and  his  letters  twice 
refer  to  his  enjoyment  of  the  organ  at  the  Crystal  Palace  ; 
in  his  books  he  mentions  riiusic  definitely,  but  seldom — ■ 
'  Madame  Angot  '  once,  and  the  singing  of  such  ballads 
as  '  The  Bailiff's  Daughter  of  Islington  '  more  than  once. 
It  is  remembered  that  he  criticized  some  village  music 

*  Jeffcfics'  Land,  edited  by  Grace  Toplis. 
■j"  Field  and  Hedgerow, 


56         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

harshly  as  a  reporter,  and  fell  foul  of  the  parish  clerk 
over  it. 

Now  and  then  he  took  a  short  holiday.  He  mentions 
running  about  on  the  Lewes  Downs  ;  but  usuall}'  he  stayed 
at  Sydenham  with  his  uncle  and  aunt,  the  Harrilds,  and 
in  September,  1866,  he  writes  as  if  he  had  meant  to  walk 
all  the  way  home  to  Coate.  He  walked  from  Temple  Bar 
to  Windsor,  by  way  of  Piccadilly  ('  which  you  may  remark 
to  uncle  is  precious  long  pica  '),  Kensington,  Hounslow, 
and  Colnbrook,  but,  the  weather  being  gloomy  and  he 
tired  on  reaching  Windsor,  he  took  a  train  that  was  soon 
to  start,  and  gave  up  the  walk.  There  was  not  always  a 
train  waiting  for  him  when  he  was  tired  ;  '  The  Story  of 
My  Heart  '  shows  that  his  eager  heart  and  brain  often 
winged  him  to  walk  until  he  was  exhausted,  and  it  is  not 
unhkely  that  he  lost  as  well  as  gained  in  after-years  by  his 
long  journeys  '  on  his  nerves.' 

He  was  full  of  interest  in  ideas,  and  evidently  of  con- 
fidence, too.  In  December,  1866,  he  refers  in  a  letter 
to  some  '  unfortunate  discussions  '  with  his  uncle,  which 
must  have  given  '  a  very  disagreeable  impression  of  him 
as  obstinate  and  opinionative.'  He  began  to  argue  on 
theological  questions  with  his  father  also.  He  dressed  a 
little  uncommonly,  and  mentions  '  what  the  Sydenham 
people  chose  to  consider  his  outlandish  hat.'  He  recon- 
sidered the  religious  '  superstitions  and  traditions  acquired 
compulsorily  in  childhood,'  and  apparently  passed  tlirough 
a  stage  of  aggressive  negation.  There  is  no  certain  evi- 
dence on  his  religious  education.  The  Sunday  services  for 
Coate  were  held  actually  at  Coate  Farm  for  a  time,  and  in 
an  early  letter  he  speaks  of  a  Tuesday  pra}'er-meeting 
there,  but  with  a  spectator's  interest.  James  Jefferies 
was  an  irregular  church-goer.  It  is  not  apparent  that  the 
religious  atmosj)here  was  particularly  strong,  or  that 
Richard  was  particularly  affected  by  it.  If  he  had  been, 
it  is  most  unlikely  that  religion  would  not  have  powerfully 
affected  the  mystic  experiences  of  his  youth,  through 
which,  if  ever,  he  would  be  passionately  exposed  to  its 


YOUTH  AND  EARLY  WRITINGS  57 

influence.  There  are  many  kinds  of  Christian,  and  it 
may  be  noticed  that  a  man  who  shows  some  beauty  of 
character  is  in  danger  of  being  ranked  as  of  one  kind,  or 
put  into  a  special  class  of  his  own,  or  charitably  labelled 
anima  naturaliter  Christiana.  Which  Jefferies  belonged  to 
I  shall  not  venture  to  say,  but  hardly  to  '  the  religion  of 
all  sensible  men,'  if  it  is  fair  to  draw  conclusions  from  the 
most  intimate  writings  of  his  intellectual  prime. 

1866  was,  according  to  his  own  statement,  the  year 
when  he  began  to  resort  to  the  hills  with  a  more  or  less 
conscious  purpose  of  getting  rid  of  his  usual  surroundings. 
He  is  so  often  careful  of  dates,  even  when  they  are  of  little 
importance,  and  was  so  curious  an  observer  of  his  own 
spiritual  progress,  that  I  see  no  reason  to  question  the 
date.  His  heart,  he  says,  grew  dusty,  *  parched  for  want  of 
the  rain  of  deep  feeling,'  and  at  such  times  he  walked  up 
Liddington  Hill '  to  breathe  a  new  air  and  to  have  a  fresher 
•aspiration.  .  .  . 

'  Moving  up  the  sw^eet,  short  turf,  at  every  step  my  heart 
seemed  to  obtain  a  wider  horizon  of  feeling  ;  with  every 
inhalation  of  rich,  pure  air  a  deeper  desire.  The  very 
light  of  the  sun  was  whiter  and  more  brilliant  here.  By 
the  time  I  had  reached  the  summit  I  had  entirely  forgotten 
the  petty  circumstances  and  the  annoyances  of  existence. 
I  felt  myself,  myself.  There  was  an  intrenchment  on 
the  summit,  and  going  down  into  the  fosse,  I  walked  round 
it  slowly  to  recover  breath.  On  the  south-western  side 
there  was  a  spot  where  the  outer  bank  had  partially 
slipped,  leaving  a  gap.  There  the  view  was  over  a  broad 
plain,  beautiful  with  wheat,  and  inclosed  by  a  perfect 
amphitheatre  of  green  hills.  Through  these  hills  there 
was  one  narrow  groove,  or  pass,  southwards,  where  the 
white  clouds  seemed  to  close  in  the  horizon.  Woods  hid 
the  scattered  hamlets  and  farmhouses,  so  that  I  was  quite 
alone . 

*  I  was  utterly  alone  with  the  sun  and  the  earth.  Lying 
down  on  the  grass,  I  spoke  in  my  soul  to  the  earth,  the 
sun,  the  air,  and  the  distant  sea  far  beyond  sight.     I 


58         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

thought  of  the  earth's  firmness — I  felt  it  bear  me  up  ; 
through  the  grassy  couch  there  came  an  influence  as  if 
I  could  feel  the  great  earth  speaking  to  me.  I  thought 
of  the  wandering  air — its  pureness,  which  is  its  beauty  ; 
the  air  touched  me  and  gave  me  something  of  itself.  I 
spoke  to  the  sea  ;  though  so  far,  in  my  mind  I  saw  it, 
green  at  the  rim  of  the  earth  and  blue  in  deeper  ocean  ; 
I  desired  to  have  its  strength,  its  mystery  and  glory.  Then 
I  addressed  the  sun,  desiring  the  soul  equivalent  of  his 
light  and  brilliance,  his  endurance  and  unwearied  race. 
I  turned  to  the  blue  heaven  over,  gazing  into  its  depth, 
inhaling  its  exquisite  colour  and  sweetness.  The  rich 
blue  of  the  unattainable  flower  of  the  sky  drew  my  soul 
towards  it,  and  there  it  rested  ;  for  pure  colour  is  rest  of 
heart.  By  all  these  I  prayed  ;  I  felt  an  emotion  of  the 
soul  beyond  all  definition  ;  pra3''er  is  a  puny  thing  to  it, 
and  the  word  is  a  rude  sign  to  the  feeling,  but  I  know  no 
other,  .  ,  . 

'  Touching  the  crumble  of  earth,  the  blade  of  grass,  the 
thyme  flower,  breathing  the  earth-encircling  air,  thinking 
of  the  sea  and  the  sky,  holding  out  my  hand  for  the  sun- 
beams to  touch  it,  prone  on  the  sward  in  token  of  deep 
reverence,  thus  I  prayed  that  I  might  touch  to  the 
unutterable  existence  infinitely  higher  than  deity. 

'  With  all  the  intensity  of  feeling  which  exalted  me,  all 
the  intense  communion  I  held  with  the  earth,  the  sun  and 
sky,  the  stars  hidden  by  the  light,  with  the  ocean — 
in  no  manner  can  the  thrilling  depths  of  these  feelings  be 
written — with  these  I  prayed,  as  if  they  were  the  keys 
of  an  instrument,  of  an  organ,  with  which  I  swelled  forth 
the  notes  of  my  soul,  redoubling  my  o\nti  voice  by  their 
power.  The  great  sun  burning  with  light  ;  the  strong 
earth,  dear  earth  ;  the  warm  sky  ;  the  pure  air  ;  the 
thought  of  ocean  ;  the  inexpressible  beauty  of  all  filled 
me  with  a  rapture,  an  ecstasy,  an  inflatus.  With  this 
inflatus,  too,  I  prayed.  Next  to  myself  I  came  and  recalled 
myself,  my  bodily  existence.  I  held  out  my  hand,  the 
sunlight  gleamed  on  the  skin  and  the  iridescent  nails  ;  I 


YOUTH  AND  EARLY  WRITINGS  59 

recalled  the  mystery  and  beauty  of  the  flesh.  I  thought 
of  the  mind  with  which  I  could  see  the  ocean  sixty  miles 
distant,  and  gather  to  myself  its  glory.  I  thought  of  my 
inner  existence,  that  consciousness  which  is  called  the 
soul.  These — that  is,  myself — I  threw  into  the  balance 
to  weigh  the  prayer  the  heavier.  My  strength  of  body, 
mind,  and  soul  I  flung  into  it  ;  I  put  forth  my  strength  ;  I 
wrestled  and  laboured,  and  toiled  in  might  of  prayer. 
The  pra3^er,  this  soul-emotion  was  in  itself — not  for  an 
object — it  was  a  passion.  I  hid  my  face  in  the  grass,  I 
was  wholly  prostrated,  I  lost  myself  in  the  wrestle,  I  was 
rapt  and  carried  away.'* 

'  I  did  not  then,'  he  adds,  '  define,  or  analyze,  or  under- 
stand this.'  Sometimes  he  climbed  the  hill '  deliberately, 
deeming  it  good  to  do  so  '  ;  at  others,  the  craving  carried 
him  up  there  of  itself.  The  exaltation  made  no  outward 
show,  but  he  reached  home  greatly  exhausted.  Later  on 
he  speaks  of  being  '  absorbed  into  the  being  or  existence 
of  the  universe  '  ;  and  if  we  allow  for  the  effect  of  after- 
thoughts in  this  description,  the  experience  was  probably 
a  development  of  the  childish  dream  state  of  Bevis  into 
a  spiritual  adventure.  It  was  as  far  removed  from  the 
religion  of  his  habit  as  from  the  sciences  of  his  study  ; 
yet  it  was  in  the  nature  of  a  religious  ecstasy,  of  a  passion- 
ate demand  for  and  a  partial  realization  of  a  state  of  one- 
ness with  the  soul  of  the  world ;  and  though  there  is  no 
mention  of  the  paraphernalia  of  religion,  such  acts  as 
the  drinking  of  the  spring  water  were  sacramental. 
'  Drinking  the  lucid  water,'  he  writes  in  '  The  Story  of 
My  Heart,'  '  clear  as  light  itself  in  solution,  I  absorbed 
the  beauty  and  purity  of  it.  I  drank  the  thought  of  the 
element  ;  I  desired  soul -nature  pure  and  limpid.' 

'  To  this  cell,'  he  writes  in  another  place, f  of  the  same 
spring  perhaps,  '  I  used  to  come  once  now  and  then  on  a 
summer's  day,  tempted,  perhaps,  like  the  finches,  by  the 
cool,  sweet  water,  but  drawn  also  by  a  feeling  that  could 
not  be  analyzed.     Stooping,   I  lifted  the  water  in  the 

*  The  Story  of  My  Heart.  j-  The  Life  of  the  Fields. 


6o         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

hollow  of  my  hand — carefully,  lest  the  sand  should  be 
disturbed — and  the  sunlight  gleamed  on  it  as  it  slipped 
through  my  fingers.  Alone  in  the  green-roofed  cave, 
alone  with  the  sunlight  and  the  pure  water,  there  was  a 
sense  of  something  more  than  these.  The  water  was 
more  to  me  than  water,  and  the  sun  than  sun.  The 
gleaming  rays  on  the  water  in  my  palm  held  me  for  a 
moment,  the  touch  of  the  water  gave  me  something  from 
itself.  A  moment,  and  the  gleam  was  gone,  the  water 
flowing  away,  but  I  had  had  them.  Beside  the  physical 
water  and  phvsical  light,  I  had  received  from  them  their 
beauty  ;  they  had  communicated  to  me  this  silent  mystery. 
The  pure  and  beautiful  water,  the  pure,  clear,  and  beauti- 
ful light,  each  had  given  me  something  of  their  truth. 

'  So  many  times  I  came  to  it,  toiling  up  the  long  and 
shadowless  hill  in  the  burning  sunshine,  often  carrying 
a  vessel  to  take  some  of  it  home  with  me.  There  was  a 
brook,  indeed  ;  but  this  was  diiiferent,  it  was  the  spring  ; 
it  was  taken  home  as  a  beautiful  flower  might  be  brought. 
It  is  not  the  physical  water  ;  it  is  the  sense  or  feeling  that 
it  conveys.  Nor  is  it  the  physical  sunshine  ;  it  is  the  sense 
of  inexpressible  beauty  which  it  brings  with  it.  Of  such  I 
still  drink,  and  hope  to  do  so  still  deeper.' 

Sacramental,  too,  was  the  looking  out  at  the  hills  and 
stars  over  the  hills  before  he  slept.  But  not  yet  were 
these  things  entirely  removed  from  the  dreaminess  of 
childhood.  He  speaks  of  '  dreaming  his  prayer,'  of 
wandering  over  the  hills  all  day  in  search  of,  I  think, 
he  knew  not  what.  Had  he  known  what  he  sought,  had 
he  even  realized  that  he  was  in  search  of  something,  it 
could  hardly  have  failed  to  impress  his  writings  long  before 
'  The  Story  of  My  Heart.'  He  was  far  more  conscious  of 
the  poverty  and  bitterness,  the  loneliness  and  necessity  of 
concealment  from  hostile  or  indifferent  eyes,  the  injuries 
to  his  vanity,  such  as  he  attributed  to  Felix  in  '  After 
London.' 

In  September,  1867,  he  was  very  ill.     He  wrote  to  his 
aunt  to  say  that  while,  a  few  days  ago,  he  could  walk 


YOUTH  AND  EARLY  WRITINGS  6i 

thirty  miles,  now  he  can  scarcely  take  thirty  steps  ;  his 
eyes  are  too  weak  to  wTite  much ;  he  is  terribly  ennuye, 
and  asks  for  a  book.  The  illness  has  swept  away  some 
cobwebs  from  his  brain  ;  he  is  going  to  be  '  not  a  swell, 
but  stylish,'  believing  that  people  look  more  at  the  coat 
than  the  man,  knowing  that  '  this  is  the  case  with  hats.' 
He  is  losing  his  place  on  the  North  Wilts  Herald  because  it 
is  now  the  busiest  time  of  the  year.  A  few  days  later  he 
is  improving,  but  still  weak  and  thin.  '  I  did  too  much 
yesterday  in  the  way  of  study — my  head  when  I  got  to  bed 
seemed  to  swell  big  enough  to  fill  the  room.'  A  fortnight 
later  still  he  is  suffering  from  over-exertion,  but  has  been 
better.  At  the  end  of  the  month  he  is  '  still  weak  and 
miserably  thin  '  ;  the  editor  will  give  him  a  fortnight 
if  he  cares  to  return  as  a  reporter  at  twenty-four  shillings 
a  week  and  live  in  S\\dndon.  Most  of  that  fortnight  he 
spent  at  Sydenham,  and  whilst  there  composed  or  copied 
a  sermon  on  Luke  xii.  52,  rhetorically  showing  that  Christ 
will  not  allow  compromise  of  any  kind.  Back  at  Coate, 
he  writes  that '  the  red  leaves  of  the  maple  and  the  yellow 
leaves  of  the  limes  make  a  beautiful  contrast  with  the  oaks 
and  elms,  as  yet  little  affected  by  the  frosts.'  He  is  busily 
reporting — at  three  meetings  in  one  day,  he  mentions. 

In  an  undated  letter  from  Coate,  not  long  after  this 
illness,  he  writes  to  say  that  he  has  been  ill  of  an  eruptive 
fever,  and  can  only  walk  up  and  down  in  the  sun  behind 
a  good  thick  hedge.  He  does  not  want  to  go  to  Devon, 
because  he  will  be  alone.  ]\Iay  he  stay  at  Shanklin  Villa, 
'  among  the  dear  old  scenes,  in  the  dear  old  house,  near 
the  dear  old  Crystal  Palace,  which  is  well  sheltered  '  ?  He 
had  his  way.  In  this  letter  he  just  mentions  an  essay 
on  '  Instinct '  which  he  is  writing.  A  little  afterwards, 
in  1868  (Mr.  Harrild  having  died),  he  writes  to  say  that 
he  is  happier  with  his  aunt  than  at  home,  because  she 
enters  into  his  prospects  and  is  always  kind  ;  he  will  work 
hard  to  please  her,  or  '  this  fatal  indolence  '  will  ruin  him. 
On  Good  Friday,  1868,  he  is  still  working  at  his  essay  on 
'  Instinct,'  and  improving  his  handwriting.     All  that  I 


62         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

could  learn  from  one  who  was  with  him  on  the  North 
Wilts  Herald  was  that  the  staff  once  signed  a  roundrobin 
against  his  handwriting.  At  Coate,  he  says,  '  a  blind 
man  married  his  cousin — I  suppose  you  will  say  that 
none  but  a  blind  man  would  do  that,  by  way  of  hint. 
He  has  set  up  in  the  tea,  snuff,  tobacco,  and  fish  line,  as 
a  rival  to  old  Job  Brown,  who  has  enjoyed  a  monopoly  at 
Coate  for  the  last  forty  years.' 

In  April,  1868,  Richard's  grandfather,  John  Jefferies, 
died  ;  instead  of  leaving  Coate  Farm  purely  and  simply 
to  James  Jefferies,  Richard's  father,  he  added  a  cumber- 
some provision,  and  it  was  not  long  before  the  son 
began  to  borrow  on  it.  The  bakery  passed  into  other 
hands.  Thus  the  home  life  was  no  easier  ;  Richard  was 
discontented  and  not  well.  He  would,  he  writes  in  June, 
1868,  like  a  Civil  Service  clerkship.  Reporting  is  too 
exciting  and  uncertain,  for  he  is  not  strong,  and  has  been 
fainting  in  church.  Later  in  the  same  month  (it  is  a 
Sunday,  and  he  remarks,  '  I  can  always  write  more  easily 
on  a  Sunday — I  don't  know  why,  except  that  other 
people  generally  try  to  write  on  any  other  day  than  that, 
and  that  I  must  be  different  from  them,  must  be  a  poppy 
in  the  cornfield  ')  he  says  that  he  would  think  himself 
lucky  to  get  an  engagement  on  the  Daily  News.  But  he 
has  '  been  very  queer  for  some  time — so  much  inclined  to 
faint ;  but  there  is  no  need  for  a  doctor  :  Time's  the  great 
physician  and  Nature  the  best  nurse,'  and  last  spring 
he  took  nothing  for  a  cold  and  cough  ;  he  will  have  nothing 
to  do  with  physic.  He  knows  that  his  mother  has  been 
discussing  him  with  Mrs.  Harrild,  and  wishes  she  would 
let  him  alone.  '  I  don't  believe  she  knows  half  the  time 
what  she's  about ;  she  walks  into  a  room,  stares  round, 
and  then  asks  herself  what  she  came  there  for.'  She  has 
been  seeing  Mr.  Piper,  editor  of  the  North  Wilts,  and 
'  making  a  mess  of  it.'  But  he  thinks  she  is  learning  that 
'  it  is  best  to  leave  her  self-willed  son  alone.' 

In  July  he  is  expecting  a  box  of  books  and  an  electric 
machine  from  Mrs.  Harrild,  which  would  help  him  in  his 


YOUTH  AND  EARLY  WRITINGS  63 

'  scientifical  studies.'  He  mentions  how  he  used  to  be 
afraid  of  thunder  and  hghtning,  but  had  the  cowardice 
frightened  out  of  him  when  lightning  struck  his  aunt's 
house  one  day  while  he  was  there  alone.  He  has  been 
writing  a  story,  with  '  character  rather  than  sensational 
incident ;  my  characters  are  many  of  them  drawn  from 
life  .  .  .  scenery  described  from  places  that  I  have  seen.' 
The  virtuous  are  rewarded  and  the  wicked  punished, 
exactly  as  in  the  Bible,  he  says.  He  is  more  cheerful 
now,  though  he  has  no  regular  newspaper  work. 

On  August  28,  1868,  his  handwriting  is  slow,  precise,  and 
in  pencil  : 

'  Thank  God  I  am  getting  better  now,  and  can  sit  up 
in  bed  ;  but  I  am  so  miserably  weak,  and  my  legs  are  as 
thin  as  a  grasshopper's.  .  .  .  But  when  I  come  to  think  it 
over  calmly,  I  can  almost  thank  God  that  I  have  been  ill, 
for  it  has  made  me  pause  and  think,  and  I  can  now  see 
what  a  wrong  and  even  wicked  course  I  have  been  secretly 
pursuing  for  a  long  time,  and  I  hope  I  shall  take  warning. 
God  has  been  very  merciful  to  me  this  time.  I  never 
found  my  Bible  a  consolation  before,  but  I  have  during 
the  last  two  or  three  days,  for  its  promises  are  full  of  mercy, 
and  I  have  found  it  true,  for  I  have  prayed  earnestly  and 
God  has  answered  me.  .  .  . 

'  Above  all,  I  am  in  the  country,  and  can  see  the  green 
grass  out  of  window,  and  it  is  quiet.  ,  .  . 

'  I  have  such  a  longing  to  see  the  sea.' 

He  must  have  a  change,  and  has  saved  enough  to  pay 
for  it. 

His  aunt  at  Sydenham  was  one  of  his  dearest  friends  ; 
she  was  a  religious  woman,  and  would  be  sure  to  offer  the 
sick  youth  religious  consolation.  These  utterances  on  the 
edge  of  the  grave — the  letter  has  several  repetitions  and 
slips — are  insignificant,  therefore,  unless  they  can  be 
shown  to  have  any  bearing  upon  Jefferies'  life  in  the  days 
of  strength  which  followed.  Had  they  taken  a  more 
individual  form  that  might  suggest  that  this  tremulous 
repentance  issued  from  the  holiest  chambers  of  his  heart, 


64         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

it  would  be  different ;  but  they  are  conventional,  and  as 
little  related  to  the  real  man  as  '  Masked  '  and  the  '  History 
of  Malmesbury.'  He  was  an  irregular  church-goer,  except 
when  later  he  used  to  go  to  Chisledon  with  the  Misses 
Baden  after  his  engagement  to  one  of  them.  A  man 
who  remembers  him  well  at  church  recalls  that  he  used 
to  enter  by  the  '  Devil's  door  ' — the  door  now,  I  think, 
blocked  up,  through  which  the  exorcised  Devil  fled  once 
upon  a  time  from  the  baptized.  As  he  recovered,  his 
-  letters  gradually  lost  the  religious  phrasing.  He  read  the 
Greek  Testament,  and  his  thoughts  seem  to  have  travelled 
perversely  not  to  Judaea,  but  to  Greece.  '  Everything 
beautiful  is  Greek,'  he  writes  ;  '  the  greatest  poet  was  a 
Greek — Homer.  The  most  beautiful  statues — those  at 
Rome  in  the  Vatican — were  sculptured  by  Greeks.  The 
Greek  cast  of  countenance  is  the  most  beautiful  ;  when 
perfect,  it  is  almost  divine.'  He  wrote  four  letters  to  his 
aunt  in  September.  In  the  first  he  can  walk  about  his 
room  with  a  stick  ;  his  Bible  is  a  great  consolation,  but  he 
wants  more  faith.  He  wishes  to  get  away  from  Coate  for  a 
while.  '  It  seems  tainted  '  by  his  illness,  just  as  nearly 
twenty  years  later  he  remembered  the  violet  bank  of  '  My 
Old  Village  '  to  have  been  tainted  by  disease.  Three  days 
later  he  has  been  out  of  doors  :  '  I  know  not  how  to  thank 
God  sufficiently  for  thus  raising  me  up.'  He  wants  to 
write  a  pious  memoir  of  his  Uncle  Harrild.  He  is  writing  a 
tragedy,  '  Caesar  Borgia  ;  or.  The  King  of  Crime,'  and  hopes 
to  see  it  at  Drury  Lane.  Some  day  he  will  strike  the 
right  string,  and  get  into  public  notice  ;  he  is  persuaded 
he  will  ultimately  succeed.  He  has  bought  a  history  of 
the  Popes,  interesting  now  to  him,  '  when  Romanism  and 
ritualism  seem  once  again  lifting  their  heads.'  Later  he  is 
amusing  himself  with  books  and  writing,  and  walks  about 
his  room,  enjoying  his  meals,  especially  tea  ;  all  his  old 
tastes  return,  including  his  fondness  for  sweet  things. 
All  the  villagers  have  inquired  after  him,  and  sent  him 
honey  and  other  gifts  ;  he  will  see  more  of  the  people  now 
— '  too  much  study  is  selfish,  almost  sinful,  perhaps  quite.' 


YOUTH  AND  EARLY  WRITINGS  65 

This  was  but  a  transient  softness  towards  the  neighbours 
who  had  ridiculed  and  reviled  him  for  his  indolence,  his 
unusual  figure  and  careless  dress,  and  his  poor  scrap  of 
a  march  to  Moscow.  They  were  nothing  to  him  :  '  there 
was  not  a  single  one  friendly  to  me.'  Near  the  end  of  the 
month  he  has  twice  walked  to  Swindon  and  back,  and  is 
strong  enough  to  travel.  His  evenings  are  wearisome  : 
his  father  and  Henry  go  out,  '  mother  runs  about  the 
house,'  and  he  gets  tired  of  reading.  He  wants  to  see 
England  :  '  I  think  next  spring,  all  being  well,  to  start  for 
a  long  journey,  most  probably  into  Cornwall,  or  else  to 
the  north  of  Scotland,  but  I  would  sooner  see  wild  Cornwall 
and  hear  the  wild  Cornish  legends  of  King  Arthur.'  His 
employers  (the  Wilts  and  Gloster  Standard)  wanted  him 
back,  and  commissioned  him  to  write  a  history  of  Ciren- 
cester. In  October  he  took  a  short  holiday  at  Sydenham 
or  Eastbourne,  and  by  the  middle  of  November  was  as 
busy  as  ever,  once  working  twenty-two  hours  out  of  the 
twenty-four  at  election  work,  and  writing  in  cold  weather 
with  a  rug  round  his  knees  until  five  in  the  morning.  He 
is  starting  for  Malmesbury  at  half-past  six  in  the  morning 
on  foot ;  he  goes  to  Cricklade  for  Nomination  Day,  when 
fighting  is  expected. 

On  his  one  clear  day  in  this  busy  season  he  was  out  all 
day  with  his  gun.  But  it  was  not  sport  alone ;  it  was 
something  more  even  than  his  deepest  love  of  Nature 
in  earlier  days  that  now  enriched  his  experience  out  of 
doors.  Before  his  illness  he  had  been  devoted  to  one  of 
his  cousins  at  Snodshill  ;  not  much  later  he  began  his 
courtship  of  Miss  Jessie  Baden,  of  Day  House  Farm,  who 
became  his  wife.  Seeing  the  roses  in  a  much  later  summer, 
he  recalled  those  of  his  youth  : 

'  Straight  go  the  white  petals  to  the  heart ;  straight  the 
mind's  glance  goes  back  to  how  many  other  pageants 
of  summer  in  old  times  !  .  .  .  To  the  dreamy  summer  haze 
love  gave  a  deep  enchantment,  the  colours  were  fairer, 
the  blue  more  lovely  in  the  lucid  sky.  Each  leaf  finer, 
and  the  gross  earth  enamelled  beneath  the  feet.     A  sweet 

5 


66         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

breath  on  the  air,  a  soft  warm  hand  in  the  touch  of  the 
sunshine,  a  glance  in  the  gleam  of  the  rippled  waters,  a 
whisper  in  the  dance  of  the  shadows.  The  ethereal  haze 
lifted  the  heavy  oaks,  and  they  were  buoyant  on  the 
mead,  the  rugged  bark  was  chastened  and  no  longer 
rough,  each  slender  flower  beneath  them  again  refined. 
There  was  a  presence  everywhere,  though  unseen,  on  the 
open  hills,  and  not  shut  out  under  the  dark  pines.  Dear 
were  the  June  roses  then,  because  for  another  gathered. 
Yet  even  dearer  now,  with  so  many  years,  as  it  were,  upon 
the  petals  ;  all  the  days  that  have  been  before,  all  the 
heart-throbs,  all  our  hopes  lie  in  this  opened  bud.  Let 
not  the  eyes  grow  dim,  look  not  back  but  fonvard  ;  the 
soul  must  uphold  itself  like  the  sun.  Let  us  labour  to  make 
the  heart  grow  larger  as  we  become  older,  as  the  spreading 
oak  gives  more  shelter.  That  we  could  but  take  to  the 
soul  some  of  the  greatness  and  the  beauty  of  the 
summer  !'* 

That  is  what  he  was  doing.  Love  rounded  his  nature 
into  a  romantic  fulness  to  be  expressed  much  later  in 
words,  where  Nature  and  human  passion  are  as  indissolubly 
intertwined  as  they  have  been  before  or  since,  and  more 
exuberantly  joyous  in  their  union.  Love  reinforced  his 
ambitions,  his  passionate  eye,  his  dreams,  his  mystic 
moments  of  oneness  with  earth  and  stars  and  sea.  Before, 
he  had  seen  with  rich  clear  eyes  the  largeness  and  multi- 
plicity of  Nature  ;  now  it  was  true  of  him  as  of  Felise  in 
'  The  Dewy  Morn  '  : 

'  She  saw  the  clear  definition  of  the  trees,  their  colour, 
and  the  fineness  of  the  extended  branches — she  was  aware 
of  the  delicate  leaves  ;  she  saw  the  hues  of  the  wheat, 
shading  from  pale  yellow  to  ruddy  gold  ;  her  senses  were 
alive  to  the  minutest  difference  of  tint  or  sound  ;  to  the 
rustle  of  the  squirrel  touching  the  dry  leaf,  the  rush  of  the 
falling  water,  the  hum  of  the  insect  wing  ;  keen  to  the 
difference  of  motion,  the  gliding  of  the  dots  of  sunlight 
on  the  sward,  the  broad  flutter  of  the  peacock-butterfly, 

*  The  Life  of  the  Fields. 


YOUTH  AND  EARLY  WRITINGS  67 

the  quick  vibration  of  the  wasp-fly's  vane.  Her  exalted 
passion  strung  her  naturally  fine  and  sensitive  nature  ; 
she  seemed  to  feel  the  sun's  majestic  onward  sweep  in  the 
deep  azure — her  love  made  earth  divine.' 

In  *  World's  End  '  he  wrote  :  '  How  delicious  it  is  to 
see  everything  through  the  medium  and  in  the  company 
of  a  noble  girl  just  ripening  into  womanhood  !'  '  The 
Story  of  My  Heart,'  '  The  Dewy  Morn,'  and  all  his  later 
books  are  full  of  proofs  of  his  exquisite  physical  sensitive- 
ness ;  but  the  physical  was  always  akin  to  the  spiritual 
as  the  flower  to  the  perfume.  His  tastes  were  delicate. 
He  smoked  little  ;  and  he  was  a  small  drinker,  taking  not 
even  a  glass  of  porter  for  his  dinner  unless  his  reporting 
had  been  heavy.  His  sense  of  touch  seems  to  have  a 
soul  of  its  own.  To  touch  the  lichened  bark  of  a  tree 
was  to  repeat  his  prayer  for  deeper  soul-life.  Felise  takes 
a  leaf,  feels  it,  and  drops  it  again  ;  she,  too,  touched  the 
oak-bark,  and  '  full  of  life  was  her  touch  '  ;  she  felt  the 
water — '  she  liked  to  touch  all  things  '  ;  she  enjoyed  the 
touch  of  her  soft  shoulder  against  her  softer  cheek.  The 
spirit  exalted  this  sensuousness  ;  the  senses  preserved  the 
sweetness  of  the  spirit.  In  another  nature  senses  so  opu- 
lent, especially  if  aided  by  an  imperfect  love,  might  have 
wrought  their  own  destruction.  But  in  Jefferies  the 
senses  perform  always  and  only  the  functions  of  the  soul, 
and  the  purity  of  his  passion  equals  its  fearlessness  in 
whatever  swoons  and  energies  time  may  bring.  Courage 
and  spirit  he  had  also,  and  when  he  was  a  tall,  delicate 
man,  already  bearded  round  the  throat,  though  he  shaved 
his  lip,  he  fought  a  long  fight  with  a  soldier  and  held  his 
o\ATi ;  but  as  they  were  shaking  hands  at  the  end,  his 
enemy  struck  a  treacherous  blow  that  sent  him  home 
with  a  broken  nose. 

In  September,  1870,  he  was  at  Hastings,  on  his  way  to 
Dover  and  Ostend.  He  was  taking  a  longish  holiday, 
and  had  already  been  staying  at  Sydenham  and  at 
Worthing,  where  the  large  and  beautiful  eyes  of  a 
Josephine  had  begun  to  haunt  him.     He  was  staying  at 

5—2 


68         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

Hastings  partly  because  the  Prince  Imperial  was  there  : 
he  sent  the  Prince  some  verses  on  his  exile,  and  believed 
himself  to  have  brought  about  the  dismissal  of  some 
traitorous  equerries  who  called  the  Empress  '  the  Spanish 
cow.'  These  '  adventures  '  excited  Jefferies,  and  he  was 
unwell,  but  he  entered  into  conversation  with  everyone 
approachable — with  coastguards  who  told  him  something 
of  smuggling,  with  boatmen,  with  a  retired  Indian  officer, 
with  a  '  gentleman  who  had  been  in  the  diplomatic 
service,'  and  with  a  pamphleteer.  Also,  he  tells  his  aunt  : 
'  I  have  had  adventures  with  the  ladies  which  I  do  not 
care  to  write  .  .  .  vide  lock  of  hair.'  Towards  the  end 
of  the  month  he  was  happy  at  Brussels,  and  writes  from 
the  Hotel  de  I'Europe  on  September  22  a  letter  which 
reveals  the  same  delight  in  holiday  humanity  as  he  after- 
wards took  at  Brighton  and  expressed  with  a  blithe  and 
sparkling  sensuousness  : 

'  Brussels  delights  me.  It  is  beautifully  clean,  and 
people  say  exactly  like  Paris  in  miniature.  They  call  it 
un  petit  Paris.  The  ladies  are  not  to  be  approached  by 
our  horrid  dowdies  in  London.  From  the  poorest  to  the 
richest  all  dress  admirably.  There  is  a  fashion,  but  no 
one  confines  herself  to  it — each  dresses  in  that  style  exactly 
which  pleases  her  best.  The  ladies  are  dark-complexioned, 
with  dark  sparkling  eyes  and  very  black  hair  ;  in  fact,  I 
never  knew  what  black  hair  was  before.  Nearly  all  are 
pleasing,  great  numbers  pretty,  and  some  exceedingly 
handsome  ;  une  grande  belle  dined  with  us  yesterday,  a 
refugee  from  Paris.  Her  husband  is  shut  up  in  Metz,  and 
has  not  been  heard  of  for  six  weeks.  I  never  saw  a  more 
classic  countenance.  Almost  all  fashionable  Paris  is  here. 
But  the  ladies.  The  favourite  colour  of  the  dresses  is 
chocolate,  or  one  of  its  shades, — this  suits  their  com- 
plexions. Crinolines  are  abolished,  but  they  have  a  kind 
of  Grecian  bend  looped  up  behind.  The  flounces  are  the 
chief  ornament ;  they  are  very  rich.  The  sleeves  are 
often  very  wide  at  the  wrists.  The  boots  are  delicious 
little    things — high    heels,    very    coquettish;    stockings 


YOUTH  AND  EARLY  WRITINGS  69 

white,  collars  Shakespeare  style,  very  small  bonnets, 
chiefly  little  hats ;  chignons  are  invisible,  thank  Heaven  ! 
The  hair  is  done  very  nicely ;  no  pads.  It  is  often  done 
in  two  bundles  ! — one  on  each  side  of  the  parting,  with  one 
piece  drawn  back  between  them  from  the  forehead  to  the 
nape  of  the  neck.  Often  the  neck  is  open,  which  I  like. 
This  would  suit  Lizzie  Cowley.  This  is  walking  dress. 
Evening  dress  is  generally  closed  up  to  the  neck,  and 
resembles  a  waistcoat.  With  a  Shakespeare  coUar  and  the 
hair  done  close  to  the  head,  these  dark  ladies  look  almost 
like  very  handsome  men.  I  have  several  times  at  the 
opera,  where  one  cannot  see  the  petticoat,  had  to  look 
twice  to  make  sure,  and  then  only  told  by  the  absence  of 
whiskers,  and  the  expression  of  trusting,  relying  upon 
others,  which  always  dwells  upon  a  woman's  face.  Fans 
are  used  by  every  lady  who  thinks  anything  of  herself, 
and  very  skilfully  too.  It  is  impossible  not  to  fall  in  love 
with  these  girls.  They  are  so  animated,  so  fuU  of  life — 
to  watch  them  converse  is  a  study — so  different  from  our 
cold,  milk-and-water,  yes  and  no  young  ladies.  I  am 
dreadfully  annoyed  that  I  do  not  speak  and  read  fluently, 
for  manners  are  very  easy  here,  and  I  could  often  join 
parties.  I  admire  them  greatly — they  are  so  graceful. 
The  children  are  almost  as  interesting.  I  used  to  hate 
children.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  am  growing  very  fond 
of  them.  They  are  dressed  most  charmingly,  with  such 
taste,  and  then,  to  see  little  things  of  4  and  5  gesturing 
away  while  they  talk  is  very  amusing.  Everyone  is 
sociable  here,  and  all  Brussels  has  a  great  reunion  once 
a  day  in  the  park  or  on  the  Boulevards.  In  the  park  you 
take  a  chair  for  5  cents,  and  converse  or  watch  the  com- 
pany promenade,  while  the  children  romp,  play  kiss-in- 
the-ring,  and  laugh,  whfle  the  wind  blows  the  yellow 
leaves  of  autumn  rustling  along,  and  the  fountain  plays, 
and  the  sun  shines  warm.  Such  an  atmosphere  of  happi- 
ness I  never  saw,  as  full  as  is  this  city.  Everyone  seems 
happy — horses  fat,  dogs  fat,  workmen  fat.  I  have  been 
here  a  week  nearly,  and  have  not  seen  one  beggar,  and  not 


70         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

one  drunken  man  or  woman,  though  I  have  been  literally 
all  over  the  city  at  all  hours.  Yesterday  in  the  park,  a 
little  one  at  play  rolled  her  ball  under  my  feet — so  she 
came  up  and  looked  at  me,  and  lisped,  "  Pardonnez, 
monsieur,"  and  picked  it  up.  Then  came  three  more 
with  a  skipping-rope,  crying,  "Un,  deux,  trois,  and 
over!'" 

At  Brussels,  too,  he  saw  the  wounded  coming  back  from 
Sedan  ;  and  fifteen  years  later  at  Eltham  he  could  still 
see  the  glow  of  intense  pain  in  the  eyes  of  one  of  the 
soldiers  who  were  brought  in  during  '  the  dusk  of  the 
lovely  September  evenings — it  was  a  beautiful  Septem- 
ber ;  the  lime-leaves  were  just  tinted  with  orange.' 

His  family  at  Coate  must  have  resented  this  holiday- 
making  ;  he  had  no  regular  work,  and  they  probably 
thought  him  frivolous  ;  and  on  returning  to  Sydenham 
at  the  end  of  September  he  wrote  this  letter  to  John 
Woolford,  a  farmer  at  Snodshill,  near  Coate  Farm  : 

'  Dear  Sir, 

'  I  once  told  you  that  if  ever  I  found  myself  in  a 
difficulty  I  should  come  to  you  for  help,  and  you  were 
kind  enough  to  say  you  would  give  it  if  it  lay  in  your 
power.  The  truth  is,  I  know  no  other  to  whom  I  can  turn, 
for  you  are  the  only  man  I  am  acquainted  with  who  has 
a  generous  sentiment.  I  have  plenty  of  friends  and  rela- 
tives who  have  plenty  of  money,  and  who,  so  long  as  they 
believe  me  to  be  in  a  good  position,  will  be  ready  enough 
to  do  anything  for  me,  but  let  them  once  understand 
that  I  have  got  into  a  difficulty,  they  will  shrug  up  their 
shoulders — as  the  old  song  says  :  "  they  will  give  unto 
those  who  don't  want  it,"  My  pride,  I  think  a  proper 
pride,  prevents  me  from  asking  these  people.  I  could 
remain  here  with  my  kind  aunt  as  long  as  I  liked,  but  the 
truth  would  come  out,  and  although  she  would  not  alter, 
yet  the  rest  would  look  down  upon  me  with  contempt,  and 
my  presence  would  expose  her  to  unpleasant  remarks 
which  I  could  not  bear.     I  cannot  return  home  for  some- 


YOUTH  AND  EARLY  WRITINGS  71 

thing  of  the  same  kind  of  reason — in  one  word,  I  have 
no  other  resource  but  you,  and  if  you  do  not  or  cannot 
help  I  must  turn  navvy  or  starve.  The  fact  is,  I  have 
had  to  learn  the  same  bitter  lesson  that  you  have  learnt, 
only  upon  a  smaller  scale — namely,  that  good  nature  is 
another  name  for  foolery.  I  gave  away  so  much  that  I 
left  myself  insufficient  to  live  upon  while  my  plans  were 
growing  up  to  bear  fruit,  and  the  consequence  was  I  have 
had  to  abandon  them  at  the  very  moment  when  a  little 
more  time  would  have  given  me  success  and  made  me 
independent. 

'  All  is  not  lost,  but  while  the  grass  grows  the  steed 
starves.  What  I  have  to  ask  is — will  you  aUow  me  to 
live  a  little  time  with  you,  until  I  can  work  myself  up 
again  ?  May  I  come  to  your  house  and  remain  with  you 
until  I  shall  be  able  to  get  a  position  again  ?  I  do  not 
ask  you  to  give  this  to  me,  but  to  lend  it,  for  I  have  little 
doubt  but  that  in  time  I  shall  be  able  to  repay  you  every 
farthing  of  the  cost,  which  I  will  do  to  the  very  utter- 
most. I  am  to  all  intents  and  purposes  penniless.  The 
only  securities  I  can  give  you  for  repayment  are  these  : 

1  have  a  small  silver  watch  which  cost  £4,  a  small  Albert 
gold  chain  which  cost  £3,  and  a  massive  gold  chain  which 
cost  8  guineas,  a  diamond  scarf-pin  which  cost  10 
guineas,  a  double-barrelled  gun  which  cost  £y  (I  have 
the  warranty),  and  a  gig  which  I  don't  know  the  value 
of.  Besides  these,  I  have  about  200  books,  aU  standard 
and  expensive  works.  They  cost  me  full  ;£6o,  and  are 
in  good  condition.  These  are  all  my  effects  :  besides,  I 
am  young  and  strong,  and  I  should  not  object  to  bear  a 
hand  upon  the  farm  when  required  ;  in  fact,  I  should  like 
to.  I  know  something  about  it,  having  often  done  so  for 
amusement  at  home.  In  actual  coin  I  have  only  £1  left, 
and  one  or  two  franc-pieces.  I  forget,  I  have  a  small  collec- 
tion of  coins  in  my  cabinet  at  home,  among  them  a  gold 
7s.  6d.  piece,  which  you  can  have  too.     There  are  also 

2  model  steam-engines,  a  locomotive  and  a  stationary. 
The  locomotive  cost  £;^  or  £4. 


72         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

'  I  cannot  go  home.  I  would  sooner  starve.  I  can 
only  go  home  when  I  am  independent. 

'  I  could  sell  these  little  things,  but  that  money  would 
soon  go  ;  besides,  it  would  be  very  wretched  to  lose  them, 
for  some  I  value  dearly.  .  .  . 

'  What  I  want  is  a  bed  and  to  live  with  you.  I  can 
write  anywhere.  .  .  . 

*  If  you  would  send  a  telegram,  I  should  be  obliged. 

'  I  own  I  much  hope  you  will  grant  my  request,  not 
only  because  it  is  my  last  resource,  but  because  in  many 
things  we  have  a  community  of  ideas  and  sentiments, 
and  I  should  enjoy  a  few  weeks  with  you.  I  believe  you 
could  assist  me  very  materially  in  several  of  my  plans 
with  your  experience  and  knowledge  of  the  world.  And 
I  think  that  I  could  amuse  you  with  an  account  of  a  few 
things  I  have  come  across  in  the  last  few  weeks.  .  .  . 

'  You  remember,  perhaps,  my  once  asking  you  to  be- 
come a  subscriber  to  a  novel  I  wished  to  publish.  You 
agreed,  but  said  that  you  thought  people  would  much 
sooner  subscribe  or  buy  a  copy  of  my  "  History  of  Swin- 
don," if  it  was  made  larger  and  published  as  a  book.  I 
said  nothing,  but  at  once  dropped  the  idea  of  a  novel, 
and  went  to  work  collecting  material.  I  got  a  whole  box 
full  of  papers  and  old  deeds,  and  wrote  out  a  book  in 
manuscript.  I  had  it  estimated,  and  even  had  500  cir- 
culars printed  to  advertise.  This  is  the  only  manuscript 
I  have  by  me,  but  I  feel  little  doubt  I  shall  soon  be  able 
to  work  my  way  up  again.' 

A  few  days  later  he  was  with  Mr.  Woolford.  He  regrets 
leaving  Sydenham,  because  at  Coate  he  and  his  family 
are  '  so  distant  and  unsocial.'  He  is  afraid  of  his  father's 
displeasure  ;  but  his  mother  has  dr()j:)ped  in  and  met  liim 
at  Snodshill.  So  he  writes  to  his  aunt.  He  has  only 
two  shillings  and  threepence,  and  must  pawn  his  watcli- 
chain.  Squire  vSadlcr  at  Purton  has  promised  him  an 
introduction  to  the  Times,  but  he  cannot  go  over  for  want 
of    money.     He    is    thoroughly    discontented    now.     '  I 


YOUTH  AND  EARLY  WRITINGS  73 

cannot  say,'  he  writes,  '  that  I  admire  the  country  much 
after  London,  and  the  still  more  elegant  Brussels  manners. 
...  I  shall  never  be  happy  in  the  country  again.' 
Four  days  later  he  has  received  some  money  from  his  aunt, 
and  he  now  confesses  that  his  unwillingness  to  return 
home  arose  from  his  inability  to  pay  for  his  board.  But 
his  mother  has  been  over  again,  and  she  is  getting  his 
room  ready — the  tender,  restless,  melancholy  mother. 
He  is  at  work  now,  corresponding  and  sketching  articles, 
sending  a  piece  of  news  to  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette.  The 
country  is  melancholy  in  lasting  fog,  with  the  sounds  of 
rain,  of  an  acorn,  of  a  dead  leaf  falling  ;  the  oppressive 
silence  sends  him  from  the  fields  to  the  fireside.  He  is 
going  to  see  a  friend — perhaps  Mr.  Frampton,  of  Upper 
Upham — who  lives  in  the  honey  district  on  the  Downs. 
Mrs.  Harrild  has  been  asking  for  honey  and  butter  ;  he 
praises  a  Miss  Kibblewhite's  butter,  but  it  is  not  equal  to 
his  mother's  best,  and  he  says  his  father  has  a  fine  taste 
in  butter,  and  knows  the  good. 

In  February,  1871,  he  writes  from  Coate.  He  is  worse 
off  than  ever.  He  has  written  all  sorts  of  things.  '  Very 
few  were  rejected,  but  none  brought  any  return.'  The 
Marlborough  newspaper  gave  him  a  little  work — a  few 
paragraphs  a  week — but  he  did  not  think  it  worth  his 
while.  Other  papers  receive  his  writings,  but  '  don't  pay 
a  farthing.'  London  papers  would  employ  him,  but  he 
cannot  go  to  London  for  lack  of  money.  He  has  been 
offered  a  correspondentship  for  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette  in 
Brussels,  but  that  is  uncertain.  He  is  threatened  for 
debt.  He  tries  to  sell  his  gun.  He  is  obliged  to  wear  a 
shirt  until  it  falls  to  pieces  and  exposes  him  to  a  severe 
cold.  He  goes  on  writing  articles,  sketching  two  novels, 
writing  a  hundred  pages  of  one.  In  spite  of  all,  he  has 
the  firmest  belief  in  his  ultimate  good  fortune  and  success. 
Not  the  fear  of  total  indigence — for  his  father  threatens 
to  turn  him  out  of  doors — can  shake  his  belief.  He  has 
had  a  severe  cold,  but  his  health  and  strength  *  are 
wonderful.'     In  an   aside  he  mentions  the   skating   on 


74         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

the  Reservoir ;  his  brother  Henry  is  the  best  skater 
of  all. 

In  July  he  is  busy,  and  earning  money  from  the  North 
Wilts  and  the  Swindon  Advertiser,  but  chiefly  thinking 
of  his  book — the  book  of  which  Disraeli  thought  the 
subject  '  of  the  highest  interest.'  But  home  is  still  un- 
happy :  his  mother  is  '  very  unwell  .  .  ,  nervous  and 
liable  to  make  herself  miserable  over  the  merest  trifle  .  .  . 
we  live  so  unsociably  in  this  house.'  And  he  is  off  to 
Sydenham  again  ;  his  mother,  on  the  other  hand,  is  too 
poor  and  too  busy  with  the  haymaking  to  go.  At  the 
end  of  the  month  he  is  excited  and  delighted  because 
Disraeli  has  recommended  him  to  send  his  manuscript  to 
a  publisher.  This  '  favourable  opinion  of  the  man  who 
stands  highest  in  an  age  for  intellectual  power  '  over- 
comes the  sneers  and  taunts  of  his  friends — '  my  own 
father  amongst  them  ' — for  idleness  and  incapacity  ;  he 
begs  his  aunt  to  write  and  rejoice  with  him.  In  August 
Messrs.  Longmans,  Green  and  Company  are  giving  '  full 
consideration  '  to  a  novel,  and  he  thinks  that  hopeful. 
He  is  writing  a  magazine  article  ;  has  written  a  play  ; 
has  sent  the  manuscript  of  a  history  of  Swindon  to  a  local 
paper  ;  and  is  going  to  Gloucester  to  report  a  trial.  '  Now 
the  haymaking  is  over,'  he  adds,  '  we  are  going  to  walk  to 
Marlborough  Forest.' 

Messrs.  Longman  declined  the  book.  It  appeared  to 
them  that  he  had  '  gone  too  much  into  detail  on  frequent 
occasions.'  But  this  '  will  not,  with  a  considerable  portion 
of  the  public,  in  any  degree  take  away  from  the  interest  of 
a  work  so  thoroughly  practical,  and  which  displays  so 
much  knowledge  of  human  nature,  perhaps  not  in  its 
highest,  but  in  its  general  aspect.'  It  is  to  be  wished  that 
some  trace  remained  of  a  work  which  forced  this  publish- 
ing firm  to  confess  itself  '  a  firm  of  primitive,  if  not  even 
immaculate,  elderly  gentlemen.'  It  went  in  vain  to 
Messrs.  Sampson  Low ;  Messrs.  Smith,  Elder  accepted  it, 
but  it  was  never  published.     The  title  of  it  was  '  Fortune.' 

In  August  he  was  '  completely  prostrated  for  a  day  or 


YOUTH  AND  EARLY  WRITINGS  75 

two,'  after  a  '  strange,  heavy  feeling  in  the  head '  from 
overwork.  Later,  he  says  it  is  no  use  his  going  to  London 
to  look  for  work,  because  it  is  a  slack  season  and  he  is  not 
well  off.  He  is  writing  short  stories.  He  is  now  '  seri- 
ously engaged  to  Miss  Baden.'  It  had  been  a  busy, 
troubled  year.  Nothing  was  spared  him  except  satiety 
and  resignation  ;  nothing  was  spared  him  that  could  in 
the  end  tighten  a  string  for  the  ripe  music  of  his 
maturity. 

In  1872  he  was  pretty  fuUy  employed  by  the  local 
papers,  helping  to  fill  their  columns,  and  storing  his 
memory  and  note-books  with  his  observations  of  agricul- 
tural men  and  women,  farming,  the  courts.  Boards  of 
Guardians,  and  the  landscape  and  architecture  which  he 
passed  on  his  walks  to  Wootton  Bassett,  Marlborough, 
Malmesbury,  or  Wantage.  He  offered  a  novel  called 
'  Only  a  Girl '  to  Messrs.  Longman  during  this  year.  He 
was  good  enough  as  a  writer  for  his  editor  to  overlook  his 
shortcomings,  as  when  he  failed  to  give  any  account  of  a 
Liberal  meeting  because  it  was  '  such  rot,'  or  preferred 
a  walk  to  an  agricultural  banquet.  He  kept  up  his  archae- 
ological curiosity.  As  early  as  1869  he  had  written  to 
Rev.  F.  Goddard,  of  Hilmarton,  saying  that  '  for  some 
years  past '  he  had  been  interested  in  the  antiquities  of  the 
neighbourhood,  and  asking  for  information  concerning  the 
lineage  and  estates  of  the  Goddard  family.  In  1872  he 
was  writing  to  H.  N.  Goddard,  of  Clyffe  Pypard  Manor, 
about  pedigrees  and  portraits  of  the  Goddards  ;  a  pedigree 
of  the  Walronds  ;  a  brass  at  Cl3'ffe.  He  was  reading 
Hatcher's  '  History  of  Salisbury,'  and  borrowed  '  The 
Monumental  Brasses  of  England '  and  '  Monumental 
Brasses  of  Wiltshire '  from  H.  N.  Goddard ;  had 
searched  '  Domesday  '  for  Goddards,  and  was  going  to  look 
at  '  Inquisitiones  Post-mortem  '  and  '  Rotuli  Hundred- 
orum.'  Near  the  end  of  the  year,  he  wrote  that  he  had 
finished  a  history  of  Swindon,  for  which  he  had  been  col- 
lecting material  for '  ten  or  twelve  years,'  and  was  thinking 
of  publishing  it.     Part  of  it  he  had  woven  into  a  history 


76         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

of  the  Goddards,  and,  with  the  help  of  Mr.  Goddard  and 
one  or  two  others,  '  A  Memoir  of  the  Goddards  of  North 
Wilts  '  was  published  (by  the  author)  in  1873.  It  is  a 
dull  and  formless  book,  containing  little  but  facts  or 
fictions  from  other  books.  Here  and  there  he  shows  his 
own  methods,  as  when  he  quotes  the  churchwarden  at 
Aldbourne  as  remembering  a  breastplate  and  pair  of 
gauntlets  hanging  in  what  was  the  Goddards'  chapel. 
He  mentions  Ossian  and  Longfellow  again,  and  '  Peveril 
of  the  Peak,'  and  without  great  labour  or  success  tries  to 
prove  that  Aldbourne  is  '  Sweet  Auburn,  loveliest  village 
of  the  plain.'  H.  N.  Goddard  described  Jefferies  in  1872 
as  '  a  rising  young  man  who  is  writing  a  book  about  the 
Goddards.'  The  edition  was  almost  sold  out  in  a  few 
months,  and  as  late  as  the  end  of  1875  a  new  one  with 
exhaustive  pedigrees  was  discussed,  but  came  to  nothing. 

Another  archaeological  product  was  a  paper  read  before 
the  Wiltshire  Archaeological  Society  on  '  Swindon  and  its 
Antiquities,'  in  September,  1873.  He  gave  the  inscrip- 
tions of  some  Roman  coins,  and  pointed  to  '  the  preva- 
lence of  the  pure  Welsh  or  British  name  of  Lydiard  in  this 
neighbourhood,  both  as  the  name  of  persons  and  of  places,' 
as  a  proof  that  the  Britons  long  maintained  their  indepen- 
dence in  Northern  Wiltshire.  Speaking  of  the  power  of  an 
Earl  of  Pembroke,  who  set  up  Swindon  Market,  to  erect 
a  gallows  and  hang  other  men  on  it,  he  says  :  '  This  irre- 
sponsible power  vested  in  one  man  must  have  led  to  great 
abuses.  What  a  contrast  to  the  ballot-box  of  to-day, 
when  we  seem  about  to  err  on  the  other  hand  by  diffusing 
power  too  widely  !'  He  ends  a  lifeless  and  disjointed  lec- 
ture with  another  facile  piece  of  Goddardism  : 

'  In  1772,  when  Ambrose  Goddard  was  elected  as  count}' 
member,  the  motto  used  by  his  supporters,  and  worn  as 
a  card  in  the  hat,  was — "  Goddard's  the  man,  and  free- 
dom's his  plan."  Irrespective  of  all  party  politics,  I 
feel  that  I  may  confidently  say  that  there  are  numbers 
who  at  the  expected  election  in  the  spring  will  repeat 
that  ancient  motto,  and  say — "  Goddard's  the  man."     We 


YOUTH  AND  EARLY  WRITINGS  ^^ 

know  that  real,  that  is  constitutional,  freedom  is  his 
plan.' 

It  was  in  1873  that  he  published  a  pamphlet  called 
'  Jack  Brass,  Emperor  of  England.'  On  the  title-page 
is  an  imaginary  newspaper  quotation,  beginning,  '  The 
suit.  Honour  v.  Brass,  terminated  on  Tuesday.'  It  is 
an  ironically  inflated  appeal  to  one  Jack  Brass  to  make 
himself  omnipotent  in  England  by  means  of  gold,  which 
is  first  in  most  men's  eyes,  and  of  which  he  has  more  than 
anyone : 

*  The  newspapers  must  be  ordered  to  preach  commu- 
nistic ideas,  because  communism  is  the  sure  forerunner 
of  despotism  in  a  commercial  country  which  requires  order, 
that  can  only  be  guaranteed  by  the  strong  hand  and  single 
will.  To  foster  the  growth  of  this  feeling  among  the 
people,  strengthen  and  support  those  institutions  which 
put  the  idea  partially  into  practice,  such  as  co-operative 
stores.  Support  the  farmers'  measure  giving  compensa- 
tion for  unexhausted  improvements,  as  a  form  of  com- 
munism and  calculated  to  weaken  the  Conservatives. 
Establish  a  system  of  easy  transfer  of  land,  and  abolish 
primogeniture  :  these  measures  will  destroy  the  sense  of 
absolute  proprietorship,  so  opposed  to  communism.  All 
this  will  put  greater  power  into  the  hands  of  the  masses, 
who  are  ultimately  to  delegate  it  to  you.  .  .  .  Educate  ! 
educate  !  educate  !  Teach  everyone  to  rely  on  their  own 
judgment,  so  as  to  destroy  the  faith  in  authority,  and  lead 
to  a  confidence  in  their  own  reason,  the  surest  method  of 
seduction.  .  .  .  Let  women  have  the  suffrage.  .  .  .  No 
man  will  be  ashamed  to  commit  a  vulgar  or  evil  action 
from  respect,  esteem,  or  love  for  a  woman.  .  .  .  Abolish 
the  calm  influence  of  the  Sunday.  .  .  .' 

It  is  a  jaunty,  humorously-intended  by-product  of  his 
Conservatism,  which  served  its  purpose,  if  it  gave  him  as 
much  satisfaction  immediately  as  disgust  later  on. 

In  1873  also  appeared  '  Reporting,  Editing,  and  Author- 
ship :  Practical  Hints  for  Beginners  in  Literature  '  (John 
Snow,   Ivy   Lane,   Paternoster   Row ;   and   Alfred   Bull, 


78        THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

Victoria  Street,  Swindon).  He  recommends  '  a  good 
personal  manner,'  and  an  avoidance  of  the  '  horsey  '  or 
'  fast.'  Amplified  reports  may  be  coloured  by  '  descrip- 
tive or  imaginative  writing,  and  perhaps  a  few  lines  of 
poetry,  or  a  quotation.'  As  to  shorthand,  had  Chatterton 
learnt  to  write  it,  '  how  different  his  fate  might  have  been.' 
Literature,  like  other  trades,  *  requires  an  immense 
amount  of  advertising.'  It  is  '  wisest  to  study  the  exist- 
ing taste,'  since  only  a  great  genius  can  create  a  taste. 
The  author  should  publish  at  his  own  expense,  and  so 
avoid  '  a  fruitless  and  disheartening  attempt  to  dispose 
of  his  manuscript.'  The  only  point  of  any  biographical 
value  is  that  he  insists  on  the  reporter  studying  the 
topography,  antiquities,  traditions,  and  genercd  charac- 
teristics, churches,  and  scenery  of  his  neighbourhood. 
The  rest  of  the  book  is  a  hasty  concession  to  the  common 
opinion  that  he  was  himself  an  unpractical  idler  ;  and  he 
sets  about  giving  advice  which  might  produce  just  the 
smart  young  feUow  that  he  could  not  go  so  far  as  to 
become,  even  to  please  his  family. 

He  remained  unchanged.  His  brother  remembers  that 
he  used  to  walk  for  hours  up  and  down  by  the  lime-trees 
at  Coate  Farm,  with  the  back  of  his  hand  to  his  chin, 
thinking  ;  once  he  pitched  a  coin  on  to  his  hat  as  he  was 
thinking  thus,  and  Richard,  picking  up  the  coin,  and  learn- 
ing its  origin,  found  dozens  of  the  old  tokens  in  a  rubblish- 
heap.  He  was  stiU  fond  of  shooting  ;  the  mere  delight  in 
marksmanship  was  so  great  that  he  used  to  shoot  at  the 
Eastcott  rifle-butts  from  time  to  time.  Or  he  would  climb 
the  Downs,  and  lie  on  his  back  with  a  book  up  above  his 
eyes  ;  and  there  was  a  chUd  who,  venturing  up  to  this  odd- 
looking  solitary,  heard  enchanting  talk  from  him  of  birds 
and  beasts,  and  found  him  there  again  and  again,  staying 
with  him  until  the  nurse  called  her  away  from  the  '  tramp.' 
He  was  then  a  tall,  thin,  slightly  stooping  man,  with  longish 
hair,  bearded,  but  with  his  eager,  fresh,  unworldly,  sensuous 
lips  free  of  moustache ;  bright,  noticeable  blue  eyes  ;  ill- 
dressed  ;  taking  long  strides,  and  swinging  his  arms  with  a 


From  a  photograph. 


RICHARD   JEFFERIES 
as  a  young  man. 


p.  78. 


YOUTH  AND  EARLY  WRITINGS  79 

good  stick,  or  carrying  his  hands  in  his  pockets  ;  having  the 
reserve,  together  with  confidence  and  even  brusqueness, 
of  a  strong  individual  spirit  developing  in  isolation  ; 
sensitive,  but  from  sheer  concentration  deaf  and  blind  at 
times  to  the  respected  gentleman  who  said,  '  Good- 
morning,  Jefferies,'  and  hoped  for  '  Good-morning,  sir,' 
in  return.  Had  not  '  an  inner  and  esoteric  meaning  ' 
begun  to  reach  him  from  the  visible  universe,  with  in- 
definable aspirations,  a  deeper  meaning  everywhere  ? 
'  The  sun  burned  with  it ;  the  broad  front  of  morning 
beamed  with  it ;  a  deep  feeling  entered  me  while  gazing 
at  the  sky  in  the  azure  noon  and  in  the  starlit  evening.'* 
Such  pebbles  he  had  lifted  from  the  brook,  to  combat  the 
world  withal. 

*  The  Story  of  My  Heart. 


CHAPTER  V 

EARLY  MANHOOD  f^«//;«/^^)— LETTERS  TO  THE 'TLMES 
—MAGAZINE     ARTICLES     ON     AGRICULTURE     AND 
CURRENT  EVENTS 

Jefferies'  nearest  approach  as  yet  to  self-expression  in 
written  words  was  in  his  three  letters  to  the  Times  in 
November,  1872.  In  February  of  that  year  Joseph  Arch 
mounted  his  pigstool  under  the  chestnut  at  Wellesbourne, 
and  the  Warwickshire  agricultural  labourers  resolved  to 
form  a  Union.  They  struck  work,  asking  unsuccessfully 
for  sixteen  instead  of  twelve  shillings  a  week.  The  men 
of  Oxfordshire,  Herefordshire,  Worcestershire,  Somerset, 
Norfolk,  Essex,  and  Northamptonshire  stood  up  for  the 
Union ;  and  at  the  Agricultural  Labourers'  Congress  at 
Leamington  there  were  representatives  from  Wiltshire. 
Jefferies  took  the  occasion  to  write  a  long  letter  on  the 
condition  of  the  labourers,  which,  after  being  rejected  by 
another  paper,  was  printed  in  the  Times. 

He  described  the  Wiltshireman  as  an  average  specimen 
of  his  class,  in  wages  as  in  intelligence.  He  is  strong,  but 
slow,  feeding  chiefly  on  bread,  cheese,  bacon,  and  cabbage, 
and  pot-liquor — the  water  in  which  even  potatoes  have 
been  boiled.  There  is  no  ingenuity  in  their  cookery. 
They  eat  immensely  at  the  annual  club  dinner,  and  in  the 
hay  and  harvest-fields  drink  a  great  deal  of  poor  beer. 
They  are  better  clothed  than  formerly,  corduroy  and 
slops,  with  '  really  good  clothes  '  and  chimney-pot  on 
Sundays,  superseding  smocks.  The  women,  especially 
the  young,  must  dress  in  the  style  of  the  day.     As  to 

80 


EARLY  MANHOOD  St 

the  cottages,  '  there  is  scarcely  room  for  further  improve- 
ment '  in  the  new  ones  ;  it  is  the  hovels  built  by  the 
hands  of  squatters  that  are  bad  in  every  way.  The 
cottages  have  sufficient  gardens  :  allotments  have  been 
increased.  Some  towns  have  common  lands  ;  and  though 
not  in  the  use  of  labourers,  '  they  are  in  the  hands  of  a 
class  to  which  the  labourer  often  rises.'  There  has  been 
no  extended  strike  in  the  county,  because  the  labourers, 
with  ten  to  thirteen  shillings  a  week,  and  the  reapers, 
with  as  much  as  ten  shillings  a  day,  are  so  well  off.  If 
they  cannot  afford  coal  in  the  week,  yet  they  buy  a 
little  on  Saturday  night  at  two  pounds  a  ton.  One  culti- 
vator paid  one  hundred  pounds  in  cash  to  one  cottage  in 
the  course  of  a  year,  '  showing  the  advantage  the  labourer 
possesses  over  the  mechanic,  since  his  wife  and  child  can 
add  to  his  income.  Many  farmers  pay  fifty  and  sixty 
pounds  a  year  for  labourers' beer,  and  let  excellent  cottages 
at  one  shilling  a  week.  He  praises  the  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough for  only  letting  cottages  to  men  who  work  on  the 
farms  where  they  are  situated.  It  is  '  sheer  cant  '  to 
say  that  the  labourer  has  no  chance  of  rising.  He  knows 
of  two  who  are  now  farmers  ;  and  they  can  rise  to  be 
head-carter,  or  cowman,  or  bailiff,  and  do  petty  dealing 
in  pigs  and  calves.  The  women  are  not  handsome  ;  he 
knows  '  no  peasantry  so  entirely  uninviting.'  They  are 
moral,  and  no  evil  comes  of  their  rough  jokes.  As  dairy- 
maids they  earn  good  wages,  but  they  are  poor  workers 
in  the  field.  Friendly  societies,  '  patronized  by  gentry 
and  clergy,'  are  superseding  the  fatal  mops  and  fairs, 
with  their  drinking  and  immorality.  But  neither  they 
nor  the  men  ever  make  a  grateful  remark,  notwithstand- 
ing that  '  no  class  of  persons  in  England  receive  so  many 
attentions  and  benefits  from  their  superiors.'  '  No  term 
is  too  strong  in  condemnation  for  those  persons  who 
endeavour  to  arouse  an  agitation  among  a  class  of  people 
so  short-sighted  and  so  ready  to  turn  against  their  own 
benefactors  and  their  own  interest.'  Those  who  blame 
the  farmers  must  remember  that  they  work  largely  on 

6 


82         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

borrowed  capital,  and  run  great  risks.  The  wonder  is 
that  they  have  done  what  they  have  for  the  labourer, 
*  finding  him  with  better  cottages,  better  wages,  better 
education,  and  affording  him  better  opportunities  of 
rising  in  the  social  scale.' 

It  is,  he  goes  on  to  say  in  his  second  letter,  the 
labourers  themselves  who  will  not  rise — will  not  pay 
threepence  a  week  in  school-fees.  They  walk  into  Swindon 
from  places  six  miles  off  to  earn  not  much  higher 
wages  in  the  Great  Western  Railway  factory,  and  then 
have  to  pay  for  house  and  garden  more  heavily  than  as 
agricultural  labourers,  and  are  liable  to  instant  dismissal  ; 
and  '  manufactures  and  immorality  seem  to  go  together.' 
The  farmers  have  done  more  than  their  duty  ;  they  work 
hard,  run  heavy  risks,  and  just  make  a  living.  Then 
he  points  out  that  millionaires  '  pay  no  poor  rate  and  no 
local  taxation,  or  nothing  in  proportion.' 

In  the  third  letter  he  describes  the  garden  allotments 
at  Liddington,  near  Coate,  founded  and  carried  on  by  a 
rector  of  that  parish,  thus  adding  '  one  more  to  the 
numberless  ways  in  which  the  noble  clergy  of  the  Church 
of  England  have  been  silently  labouring  for  the  good  of 
the  people  committed  to  their  care  for  years  before  the 
agitators  bestowed  one  thought  on  the  agricultural  poor.' 
In  a  sketch  by  Jefferies  belonging  to  this  period,  called 
'  A  True  Tale  of  the  Wiltshire  Labourer,'  a  man  is  de- 
prived of  his  allotment  for  drunkenness  ;  and,  deserted 
by  him,  the  wife  is  in  consequence  not  visited  by  the 
rector  in  her  distress.  The  farmer  comes  for  the  rent, 
and  offers  her  sixpence  as  the  price  of  her  prostitution. 
She  dies  after  the  birth  of  a  still-born  child,  and  the 
husband  becomes  a  confirmed  drunkard.  This  is  another 
side  of  the  matter,  which  it  was  not  convenient,  probably, 
to  reveal  in  the  letters  to  the  Times. 

These  letters  are  conspicuous  for  lucid,  forcible,  and 
simple  exposition  of  his  own  observation  and  the  ideas 
of  the  tenant-farming  class.  They  sprang  readily  out  of 
a  large  experience,   and  deserved  their  success.     They 


EARLY  MANHOOD  83 

caused  discussion  in  the  form  of  letters  and  articles  in  the 
press.  They  served  the  cause  of  truth  by  criticizing  the 
labourers'  economy,  and  by  pointing  out  the  weakness 
of  the  tenant-farmer,  who  had  not  even  a  right  to  com- 
pensation for  invested  capital  if  ordered  to  quit.  It  was 
well,  too,  that  the  tenant-farmer's  point  of  view  should 
be  dressed  to  advantage.  And  Jefferies  expressed  a 
remarkable  truth,  from  which  he  was  to  draw  other  con- 
clusions, when  he  said  that  the  labourers  have  no  grati- 
tude. But  at  this  date  there  is  little  more  to  be  said  of 
these  letters.  They  must  have  served  the  cause  of  a 
party  even  more  than  that  of  truth  ;  and  honest  though 
Jefferies  was,  he  not  only  did  not  rise  out  of  the  high- 
walled  position  of  a  partisan,  but  even  so  proved  no 
extraordinary  degree  of  penetration.  It  was  almost 
excellent  journalism  ;  but  it  was  not  more.  So,  too,  with 
'  The  True  Tale.'  It  was  true,  and  it  was  worth  saying.  The 
form  of  the  tale  is  good  enough,  and  he  has  filled  out  tliat 
form  with  nothing,  or  almost  nothing,  but  true  nature, 
yet  expressed  with  so  little  concentration  that  it  is,  after 
all,  only  a  sketch.  He  was  to  return  to  the  subject 
again. 

This  slight  success  did  not  make  1873  a  cheerful  year. 
Jefferies  was  writing  another  novel,  and  this  was  rejected 
by  Messrs.  Bentley  in  May.  He  could  not  understand 
how  he  failed  to  make  headway  after  the  praises  given 
to  his  letters  to  the  Times.  He  was  coming  to  the  con- 
clusion that  he  must  publish  at  his  own  expense  ;  and,  in 
spite  of  '  eight  years  of  almost  continual  failure,'  is  '  more 
than  ever  determined  to  succeed.' 

.  Nevertheless,  he  continued  to  work  at  the  vein  just 
opened  in  the  letters  to  the  Times.  In  1873  '  The  Future 
of  Farming  '  was  published  in  Fraser's  Magazine  ;  in  1874 
'  The  Size  of  Farms  '  in  the  New  Quarterly,  and  '  The 
Farmer  at  Home,'  '  The  Labourer's  Daily  Life,'  '  Field- 
Faring  Women,'  '  An  English  Homestead,'  and  '  John 
Smith's  Shanty  '  in  Fraser's  ;  and  in  the  same  year  '  The 
Agricultural  Life,'  a  book,  was  offered  to  Messrs,  Longman. 

6—2 


84         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

In  1875  '  Women  in  the  Field  '  appeared  in  the  Graphic, 
'  Village  Organization  '  in  the  New  Quarterly,  '  The  Cost 
of  Agricultural  Labour  '  in  the  Standard  ;  in  1876  '  The 
Power  of  the  Farmers '  in  the  Fortnightly ;  in  1877 
*  Unequal  Agriculture '  in  Eraser's,  '  The  Future  of 
County  Society '  in  the  New  Quarterly.  In  1878  he 
planned  books  that  were  never  printed — '  The  Prole- 
tariate, the  Power  of  the  Future,'  and  '  A  History  of  the 
English  Squire  ' ;  and  published  '  A  Great  Agricultural 
Problem  '  in  Fraser's. 

Some  of  these  articles  are  known  to  the  public  through 
'  Toilers  of  the  Field,'  a  posthumous  book  in  which  they 
were  reprinted  ;  others  were  republished  from  the  Stan  ard 
in  1880,  as  '  Hodge  and  His  Masters.'  In  the  main,  though 
some  show  a  promise  of  different  things,  they  belong  to  the 
same  order  as  the  letters  of  1872,  and  to  the  history  of 
agriculture  and  agricultural  criticism  rather  than  to  the 
history  of  literature.  As  the  knowledge  of  these  matters 
came  to  Jefferies  largely  through  his  business  asaprovincial 
journalist,  so,  as  it  happens,  it  is  seldom  or  never  brought 
into  such  contact  with  his  whole  character  and  thought 
that  it  reflects  the  man.  Other  writers  have  exceeded 
him  in  minuteness  and  in  breadth  of  view  ;  Cobbett  is 
better  to  read.  The  contemporary  service  rendered  by 
Jefferies'  lucidfty.  honesty,  and  force  in  detail  and 
generalization  can  only  be  fairly  estimated  by  a  specialist. 
But  this  work  hardly  falls  to  be  considered  here,  because 
it  is  not  creative,  its  utmost  vividness  being  well  within 
the  compass  of  the  journalist  as  such,  and  outside  that 
of  the  artist ;  and  because  its  weight  of  opinion,  though 
respectable,  neither  made  any  serious  and  lasting  im- 
pression on  the  age,  nor  deserved  to  do  so,  and  was  such 
that  its  power  is  now  practically  spent.  Some  of  the 
ideas  set  forth  may,  however,  be  mentioned  here,  as 
helping  to  give  a  view  of  Jefferies'  intelligence,  pure  and 
simple,  while  he  was  a  young  man,  applying  itself  to 
contemporary  things. 

In  the  articles  published  in  1874,  and  now  grouped  as 


EARLY  MANHOOD  85 

'  Toilers  of  the  Field,'  he  gave  some  excellent  descriptions 
of  the  farmer,  his  conservatism,  his  pride,  and  his  faith  : 

'  I  believe  in  the  Sovereign,  the  Church,  and  the  land  : 
the  Sovereign  being  the  father  of  the  people  in  a  temporal 
sense  ;  the  Church  in  a  spiritual  sense  ;  and  the  land  being 
the  only  substantial  and  enduring  means  of  subsistence. 
Cotton,  coal  and  iron  cannot  be  eaten,  but  the  land 
gives  us  corn  and  beef ;  therefore  the  land  stands  first 
and  foremost,  and  the  agriculturist,  as  the  tiller  of 
land,  possesses  an  inalienable  right  which  it  is  his  duty 
to  maintain,  and  in  so  doing  he  is  acting  for  the  good  of 
the  community.  I  believe  that  the  son  and  the  daughter 
should  obey  their  parents,  and  show  regard  to  their 
wishes,  even  when  legally  independent.  Also  that  the 
servant  should  obey  his  employer.  The  connection  between 
employer  and  employed  does  not  cease  with  the  payment 
of  wages.  It  is  the  duty  of  the  servant  to  show  con- 
sideration for  the  advice  of  the  master  ;  and  the  master 
is  not  free  from  responsibility  as  to  the  education  and 
the  comfort  of  the  man.  The  master  is  bound  by  all 
laws,  human  and  Divine,  to  pay  a  fair  amount  of  wages 
for  a  day's  work.  If  he  does  not  do  so  he  robs  the  work- 
man as  much  as  if  he  stole  the  money  from  his  pocket. 
The  workman  is  equally  bound  to  do  his  work  properly, 
and  in  neglecting  to  do  so  he  robs  his  employer.  To 
demand  more  wages  than  has  been  earned  is  an  attempt 
at  robbery.  Both  master  and  man  should  respect 
authority,  and  abide  by  its  decisions.'* 

This,  or  something  like  it,  was  the  brief  but  difficult 
creed  in  which  Jefferies  had  been,  with  some  laxity, 
brought  up. 

In  his  account  of  the  labourer,  which  is  in  greater 
detail,  there  is  an  odd  mixture  of  sentimental  triviality, 
as  in  the  remark  that  the  labourer's  cur  '  seems  as  much 
attached  to  his  master  as  more  high-bred  dogs  to  their 
owners,'  and  of  realism  and  charming  picturesqueness. 
He  puts  forcibly  that  stubborn  question  :  What,  then 
*  Toilers  of  the  Field. 


86         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

is  the  labourer  to  do  ?  What  is  he  to  do  in  the  evenings 
now  that  village  life  is  dull  or  dead  ?  Some  of  his  criticism 
and  suggestion  is  humane  and  bold  ;  he  proposes  '  some 
system  of  village  self-government.'  His  realism  varies 
from  plain  statement,  such  as  this  description  of  the 
milker's  winter  morning  : 

'  To  put  on  coarse  nailed  boots,  weighing  fully  seven 
pounds,  gaiters  up  to  the  knee,  a  short  great-coat  of 
some  heavy  material,  and  to  step  out  into  the  driving 
rain  and  trudge  wearily  over  field  after  field  of  wet  grass, 
with  the  furrows  full  of  water  ;  then  to  sit  on  a  three-legged 
stool,  with  mud  and  manure  half-way  up  to  the  ankles, 
and  milk  cows  with  one's  head  leaning  against  their 
damp,  smoking  hides  for  two  hours,  with  the  rain  coming 
steadily,  drip,  drip,  drip.  .  .  .'* 
to  this  : 

*  He  [John  Smith]  minded  when  that  sharp  old  Miss 

was  always  coming  round  with  tracts  and  blankets, 

like  taking  some  straw  to  a  lot  of  pigs,  and  lecturing  his 
"  missis  "  about  economy.  What  a  fuss  she  made,  and 
scolded  his  wife  as  if  she  was  a  thief  for  having  her  fifteenth 
boy  !  His  "  missis  "  turned  on  her  at  last,  and  said, 
"  Lor',  miss,  that's  all  the  pleasure  me  an'  mv  old  man 
got."  't 

It  is  to  be  noticed  that  he  says  now  that,  whatever  the 
virtues  of  the  class,  '  the  immorality,'  which  is  short  for 
'  sexual  immorality,'  cannot  be  gainsaid.  'John  Smith's 
Shanty  '  is  an  advance  upon  '  The  True  Tale.'  From 
beginning  to  end  it  is  a  piece  of  lively  truth,  exact  in 
detail,  and  with  a  brave  human  spirit  over  the  description 
and  comment  that  is  far  more  uncommon.  In  the  best 
of  the  book  the  writing  might  be  called  masterly  for  its 
precision  and  flow,  if  it  were  not  outclassed  by  the  best 
of  his  maturity. 

In  '  The  Size  of  Farms  '  he  condemns  the  small  farmer, 
who  is  little  above  the  labourer  and  can  do  nothing  to 
improve  his  children's  position,  cannot  afford  a  steam- 

**=  Toilers  of  the  Field,  \  Ibid. 


From  a  pliotcj;r.iiil 


JAMES    LUCKETT  JEKKERIES, 
the  father  of  Richard  leH'ey'ies. 


p.  8s. 


EARLY  MANHOOD  87 

plough  and  high  cultivation,  is  slovenly  and  incapable 
of  progress,  and  is  not  sturdy  and  independent,  but  living 
on  borrowed  capital.  There  is  no  cause  for  alarm  in  the 
grouping  of  small  farms. 

In  '  Women  in  the  Field  '  he  deplores  the  results  of  the 
hard  work  of  women,  even  whilst  suckling,  and  the 
'  saddest  results  in  a  moral  sense  '  of  contact  with  coarse 
men.  He  suggests  an  organization  of  ladies  to  receive 
girls  after  leaving  school,  in  order  to  find  them  places  as 
servants. 

In  '  On  Allotment  Gardens  '  he  points  to  the  satisfac- 
tion of  watching  things  grow.  He  regards  the  system  of 
allotment  gardens  as  an  unmixed  good,  and  its  extension 
as  a  safety-valve  to  '  communistic  tendencies.'  Why 
should  there  not  be  societies  to  furnish  workmen  with 
gardens  as  well  as  houses  ?  And  if  there  is  room  for  a 
cemetery  in  London,  why  not  also  a  garden  ?  He 
deplores  the  lack  of  local  authority  :  a  village  council 
would  mean  good  water,  better  drainage,  and  an  adequate 
area  of  allotments. 

In  '  The  Spirit  of  Modern  Agriculture  '  he  emphasizes 
the  fact  that  agriculture  is  not  a  '  calm,  quiet  calling  ' 
now,  but  one  for  restless,  educated,  intelligent  men, 
struggling  and  pushing  forward.  '  American  ideas  '  are 
spreading  among  the  labourers,  who  have  more  and  more 
in  common  with  the  mechanic  and  the  navvy.  Why  not 
take  advantage  of  this  restlessness,  and  have  lectures  for 
those  men,  who  will  soon  have  the  franchise  ?  He  thinks 
there  is  a  more  liberal  spirit  and  less  local  prejudice  ; 
tenant  can  stand  up  to  landlord,  and  labourer  to  farmer. 

In  '  Village  Organization  '  he  finds  that  the  School 
Board  is  favoured  only  where  there  is  no  great  landlord 
and  all  are  in  disagreement  ;  that  there  is  a  strong  feeling 
against  this  placing  the  parish  more  under  imperial 
rule,  and  curtailing  '  the  freedom  that  has  hitherto 
existed.'  The  insisting  upon  '  a  large  amount  of  cubic 
space '  in  schools  is  intolerable.  It  is  not  to  be  ex- 
pected that  a  single  person  wiU  interfere  against  sewage 


88         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

flowing  into  the  water-supply,  because  '  farmers  dislike 
meddling  with  other  people's  business  ' ;  his  '  feelings  as 
a  gentleman  '  enable  him  to  ride  past  overcrowded  cot- 
tages, etc.,  and  say  nothing.  Neither  Vestry,  nor  Board 
of  Guardians,  nor  Highway  Board  has  in  practice  any 
valuable  effect.  A  village  esprit  de  corps  should  be 
created.  A  village  council  might  be  able  to  bring  a  good 
water-supply  to  the  parish  ;  to  provide  a  village  bathing- 
place,  a  rough  gymnasium,  annual  games,  a  reading-room, 
an  excursion  to  London  or  the  sea.  '  With  every  respect 
for  the  schoolmaster,  let  the  schoolmaster  be  kept  away 
from  it.'  Such  a  council  would  look  after  drainage  and  the 
rebuilding  of  cottages,  to  be  paid  for,  perhaps,  by  annual 
instalments  ;  provide  common  lands,  a  cottage  hospital, 
cookery  classes,  entertainments  ;  and  settle  local  disputes. 
But  it  must  be  founded  on  '  the  will  of  the  inhabitants,' 
not  forced  upon  them. 

In  '  The  Power  of  the  Farmer  '  he  expects  the  Board  of 
Guardians,  composed  of  farmers  and  landed  gentry,  to 
show  some  tyranny  towards  the  labourers  by  way  of  re- 
prisal. Farmers  will  win  in  their  contest  with  the 
Labourers'  Unions  because  they  have  money,  and  their 
landlords,  seeing  that  '  their  interests  are  identical,'  will 
stand  by  them.  He  favours  blacklegs,  and  thinks  that 
the  Union's  tactics  are  bad  in  deporting  men,  and  so  re- 
lieving the  farmers  of  the  need  to  support  them  at  the 
workhouse.  Arbitration  he  distrusts.  He  does  not  dwell 
on  the  possibility  that  there  is  something  deeply  wrong, 
if  not  in  the  region  of  party  politics,  when  the  land  is 
left  idle  and  only  the  men  who  could  till  it  suffer. 

In  '  Unequal  Agriculture  '  he  contrasts  the  modern 
farm,  with  steam-plough,  new  cowsheds,  etc.,  with  the 
old-fashioned  one,  moated  by  liquid  manure.  The 
country  ought  to  be  '  equally  highly  cultivated  every- 
where.' 

In  '  The  Future  of  County  Society,'  he  points  out  that 
while  the  country  clergy  have  great  prestige  and  immense 
opportunities,    '  a    picture    of    the    nineteenth    century 


EARLY  MANHOOD  89 

which  omitted  the  clergy  would  not  be  accused  of  untruth- 
fulness.' They  do  not  anywhere  teach  the  labourer  '  the 
ennobling  and  fascinating  story  of  science.'  The  country 
gentry  go  more  and  more  into  commerce  and  manufac- 
ture ;  in  London  they  find  many  with  larger  incomes,  and 
in  the  country  the  big  tenant  is  almost  their  equal.  Dissent 
divorced  the  poor  from  the  Church,  and  it  was  the  first 
step  to  independence.  The  press  influence  is  growing, 
expanded  by  wheelwright,  blacksmith,  or  hedge-car- 
penter, who  '  can  think  for  himself.'  He  dreads  the 
labourer's  power  after  the  county  franchise,  '  unless  in 
the  meantime  men  of  intellect,  calm  thought,  and  noble 
views  can  somehow  obtain  a  hold  upon  the  people,'  and  he 
suggests  a  '  universal  militia  .  .  .  without  the  stern  re- 
straint of  conscription.'  There  is  no  *  general  object ' 
throughout  each  county — '  no  such  thing  as  organiza- 
tion.' '  The  country  grows  more  republican  year  by  year, 
and  yet  at  the  same  time  more  exclusive.'  '  The  old  social 
links  are  gone,  and  no  new  ones  have  sprung  up.'  There 
is  '  a  general  desire  on  the  part  of  everybody  to  be  above 
their  business  or  occupation,'  yet  '  a  marked  increase  of 
independence.' 

In  '  A  Great  Agricultural  Problem  '  he  sees  the  growing 
importance  of  foreign  imports  :  we  must  find  out  where 
our  cheese,  butter,  etc.,  come  from,  and  why  they  have 
supplanted  home  manufactures  ;  we  must  not  dismiss  these 
matters  '  while  we  rest  under  the  ample  shadow  of  the 
shorthorn.'  He  asks  whether  English  farmers  of  any 
district  have  ever  combined,  as  the  French  have  in  the 
cheese-making  departments,  and  obtained  a  reputation 
for  a  particular  product  in  a  distant  country,  while  filling 
their  purses  at  the  same  time, 

'  Hodge  and  his  Masters  '  was  a  belated  continuation  of 
these  studies.  There  is  still  a  touch  of  the  provincial 
journalist  in  such  passages  as  where  he  describes  the 
labourer  brutalized  by  the  lowest  public-house — who, 
'  if  he  awakes  to  the  wretched  state  of  his  own  family  at 
last,  instead  of  remembering  that  it  is  his  own  act,  turns 


90         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

round,  accuses  the  farmer  of  starvation  wages,  shouts 
for  what  is  really  communism,  and  perhaps  even  in  his 
sullen  rage  descends  to  crime.'  The  thought  is  often  still 
commonplace,  reflecting  his  commonplace  environment, 
as  when,  in  his  narrative  of  the  progress  of  a  clever  squire, 
he  remarks  that  ambition,  '  if  not  too  extravagant,  is  a 
virtue.'  He  was  writing  a  great  deal  at  this  time,  and 
the  fact  that  he  was  writing  these  chapters  for  a  Con- 
servative newspaper  may  be  supposed  to  have  affect&d 
his  general  tone.  As  yet  he  was  hardly  free  from  the  ideas 
of  his  class,  and  he  did  what  was  expected  of  him.  He 
put  in  nothing  which  he  did  not  believe  to  be  true  ;  but  he 
did  not  put  in  everything  which  was  true.  His  admira- 
tion of  the  country  curate  is  evidently  sincere,  but  is  it 
not  possible  that  he  was  carried  away  not  entirely  by  his 
heart  and  intelligence  when  he  painted  the  worn-out 
enthusiast  whose  eyes  were  '  bright  and  burning  still 
with  living  faith  '?  His  book  is,  on  the  whole,  partisan. 
Dealing  with  the  Cottage  Charter,  he  scored  undoubtedly, 
but  at  this  distance  of  time  the  applause  that  must  have 
greeted  him  is  ghostly  and  faint ;  and  when  he  says, 
'  Even  hunting,  which  it  would  have  been  thought  every 
individual  son  of  the  soil  would  stand  up  for,  is  not 
allowed  to  continue  unchallenged,'  we  can  afford  to  laugh. 
Also,  it  is  not  true  that  the  fields  '  have  never  yet  inspired 
those  who  dwell  upon  them  with  songs  uprising  from  the 
soil.'  Yet  the  book  tells  in  the  end  by  its  weight  of  wide 
and  intimate  knowledge,  and  it  has  some  good  things  in 
several  different  kinds — the  observation  and  dry  humour 
in  the  presentation  of  the  '  low  public ';  the  genial, 
straightforward  picture  of  the  good  inn  at  Fleeceborough, 
with  its  excellent  simple  food,  well  cooked  under  perfect 
conditions,  and  its  strong  ale  ;  the  old-fashioned  farmer's 
tea,  and  the  daughters  laughing  straight  from  the  heart  in 
the  joyousness  of  youth  ;  Squire  Filbard's  portrait  ;  and 
the  descriptions  in  '  Hodge's  Fields  '  are  almost  in  his 
best  manner.  The  '  Conclusion  '  has  a  plain  statement 
of  the  man-made  unhappiness  of  the  aged  labourer  ;  it 


EARLY  MANHOOD  91 

attempts  no  solution  ;  it  lays  no  blame  ;  yet  it  does  throw 
the  door  open  to  a  draught  most  uncomfortable  to  receive 
at  the  end  of  a  book  that  would  have  been,  without  it,  one 
to  keep  in  good  spirits  the  investors  in  things  as  they  are. 
A  few  other  magazine  articles  may  be  mentioned  here. 
Writing  in  Fraser's  of  May,  1874,  on  the  Railway 
Accidents  Bill,  he  says  that  '  no  Government  can  at  this 
day  hope  to  carry  such  a  measure  '  as  purchase  of  railways 
by  the  State.  But  while  the  companies  have  the  privi- 
lege of  purchasing  land  compulsorily,  they  must  '  sustain 
an  equivalent  amount  of  responsibility.'  He  suggests 
Government  inspectors  of  the  permanent  way  ;  better 
fences  ;  the  use  of  continuous  brakes  ;  diminution  of  the 
number  of  hours  of  employment ;  stricter  regulations  to 
insure  the  safety  of  the  servants  themselves.  It  is  a  sober, 
clear,  and  practical  article,  showing  plenty  of  knowledge 
and  interest  in  practical  matters.  He  shows  good  sense 
in  his  article  in  Fraser's  of  February,  1875,  on  the  Shipton 
accident  of  the  past  Christmas  Eve.  He  rebukes  the 
comment  that  '  leans  towards  adopting  a  fatalistic  creed  ' 
in  face  of  such  accidents.  It  is  '  a  species  of  crime  '  to 
say  that  a  percentage  of  accidents  is  inevitable.  Every- 
thing, he  says,  '  points  to  an  entirely  preventible  origin,' 
and  the  remedy  is  to  rouse  public  opinion  to  a  point 
irresistible  by  the  railway  companies.  His  '  Story  of 
Swindon  '  in  Fraser's  of  May,  1875,  is  also  sensible  and 
well-informed.  He  thinks  the  men  of  the  Great  Western 
Railway  Factory  intelligent,  and  strongly  contrasting  with 
the  agricultural  poor.  He  is  '  tempted  to  declare  '  this 
class  of  educated  mechanics  the  '  protoplasm  or  living 
matter  out  of  which  modem  society  is  evolved.' 


CHAPTER  VI 

FIRST   NOVELS 

Parallel  with  journalistic  activity,  Jefferies'  life  went 
on  in  ways  which  his  admirable  articles  in  Fraser's 
and  the  New  Quarterly  never  once  suggest.  He  had  not 
yet  emerged  from  the  womb  of  the  Wiltshire  earth  ;  it 
was  with  difficulty  that  he  was  being  bom  ;  he  lay  yet 
involved  in  the  soil,  only  half  of  the  man  or  earth-spirit 
that  he  was  to  become.  His  subjects  lay  outside  of  him, 
quite  apart  ;  or  they  had  entered  into  his  heart,  but  not 
his  mind.  As  he  walked  in  the  dewy  fields,  with  the  early 
morning  sun  behind  him,  or  under  the  moon,  he  saw  the 
shining  halo  on  the  grass  which  Benvenuto  Cellini  records 
having  seen.  He  was  taking  those  daily  pilgrimages  in 
which  there  came  to  him  '  a  deep,  strong,  and  sensuous 
enjoyment  of  the  beautiful  green  earth,  the  beautiful  skj' 
and  sun  .  .  .  inexpressible  delight,  as  if  they  embraced 
and  poured  out  their  love  for  me.  .  .  .  After  the  sen- 
suous enjoyment  always  came  the  thought,  the  desire  : 
that  I  might  be  like  this  ;  that  I  might  have  the  inner  _ 

meaning  of  the  sun,  the  light,  the  earth,  the  trees  and         I 
grass,  translated  into  some  growth  of  excellence  in  myself, 
both  of  body  and  of  mind  ;  greater  perfection  of  physique,  . 

greater  perfection  of  mind  and  soul  ;  that  I  miglit  be  higher  1 
in  myself.'  Summer  and  winter  he  went  to  the  same 
oak  to  escape  the  loneliness  of  ordinary  life.  There  were 
several  of  these  '  thinking  places  ':  on  the  Hungerford 
road  near  Liddington,  or  on  the  Marlborough  road  near 
Badbury,  where  the  hUls  were  well  in  view ;  in  one  of  the 

92 


FIRST  NOVELS  93 

deep  coombes  cloven  in  the  chalk  at  Liddington  or  Bad- 
bury  or  Chisledon  ;  also  a  wood  '  half  an  hour's  walk  dis- 
tant,' perhaps  Burderop  Wood ;  another,  '  two  miles 
along  the  road  to  a  spot  where  the  hills  began,'  seems 
most  likely  to  be  by  the  fir-trees  on  the  Marlborough  road, 
at  the  corner  of  the  '  New  '  road,  where  the  pass  through 
the  Downs  at  Ogboume  St.  George  is  in  sight. 

Little  of  this  is  to  be  found  in  his  first  published  novel, 
*  The  Scarlet  Shawl '  (1874).  His  characters  are  persons 
with  much  leisure  for  passions.  Percival  Gifford  is  in  love 
with  Nora,  but  is  enslaved  by  the  dazzling  Pauline  Vietri, 
while  Nora  turns  aside  to  flirt.  The  name  and  the 
naughtiness  of  Pauline  Vietri,  like  that  of  Carlotta  in 
'  Restless  Human  Hearts,'  is  perhaps  a  reflection  from 
Jefferies'  early  reading  of  '  Poems  and  Ballads.'  Percival, 
for  a  time  '  a  detestably  conceited  puppy,'  reasons  cleverly 
about  polygamy,  and  questions  whether  he  is  carrying 
out  the  decree  of  Heaven  if  he  stints  his  natural  ability 
'  by  confining  himself  to  one  lady.'  But,  in  spite  of  this, 
he  can  reflect  the  ardours  of  Jefferies  himself,  when,  for 
example,  he  dreams  of  '  a  book  of  religion  which  should 
supersede  '  the  Koran  and  the  Bible,  and  says,  with  a 
faint  foretaste  of  '  The  Story  of  My  Heart  ':* 

'  The  unconscious  cerebration  which  had  been  going  on 
in  his  mind,  excited  by  the  perception  of  the  glories  and 
beauties  of  Nature — of  stars,  sea,  flowers,  art — which  per- 
ception in  him  was  peculiarly  acute,  when  his  vanity  made 
him  exalt  himself  and  think  of  doing  justice  to  himself, 
forced  itself  forward,  and  he  grasped  at  it  as  the  readiest 
and  best  means  of  showing  his  worth.  He  could  no  more 
have  written  down  that  stream  of  unconscious  thought 
than  he  could  have  turned  sensation  itself  into  material 
shape  ;  but  he  conceived  the  idea  of  doing  so.  .  .  .' 

And  again  : 

'  His  eyes,  fastened  on  the  horizon,  drank  in  the  glorious 
dawn  of  the  light  as  the  glowing  sun  revealed  itself — a 
visible  archangel.    The  azure  sky,   the  roseate  clouds, 

*  The  Scarlet  Shawl. 


/ 


94         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

the  glittering  water,  filled  him  with  a  sense  of  higher  life. 
If  he  could  only  drink  of  this  beauty  always,  he  should  be 
immortal.  .  .  .' 

Some  of  the  writing,  too,  has  an  emotional  exuberance, 
even  when  it  falls  into  fatuity,  which  may  have  been  an 
exalting  exercise.  There  is,  for  example,  a  rich  com- 
parison of  a  kind  of  beautiful  woman  to  one  of  those  rare 
years  when  the  sky  is  blue  not  only  in  May,  but  until 
October  ends.  When  the  hero  has  come  to  the  disgust 
of  a  voluptuous  life,  Jefferies  opens  a  chapter  of  pause  by 
reflecting  that  '  the  glorious,  beautiful,  and  kingly  Tyrian 
purple  had  a  peculiar  odour  about  it — a  faint  sickly  smell, 
a  dampness,  a  trace  of  the  salt  sea  on  whose  shores  the 
dye  was  made.  .  .  .'     He  continues  :* 

'  Deep,  deep  down  under  the  apparent  man — covered 
over,  it  may  be,  with  the  ashes  of  many  years,  the  scoriae 
of  passion  and  the  lava  of  ambition,  and  these,  too,  spread 
over  with  their  crust  of  civilization,  cultivated  into 
smiling  gardens,  and  rich  cornfields,  and  happy  glorious 
vineyards — under  it  aU  there  is  a  buried  city,  a  city  of 
the  inner  heart,  lost  and  forgotten  these  many  days. 
There,  on  the  walls  of  the  chambers  of  that  city,  are  pic- 
tures, fresh  as  when  they  were  painted  by  the  alchemy  of 
light  in  the  long,  long  years  gone  by.  Dancing  figures, 
full  of  youth  and  joy,  with  gladness  in  every  limb,  with 
flowing  locks,  and  glances  wildly  free.  There  are  green 
trees,  and  the  cool  shade,  and  the  proud  peacock  in  his 
glory  of  colour  pluming  himself  upon  the  lawn.  There 
is  the  summer  arbour,  overgrown  and  hidden  with  ivy, 
in  whose  dreamy,  dark  recess  those  lips  first  met,  and 
sent  a  thrill  of  love  and  hope  through  all  the  trembling 
frame.  There,  too,  in  those  chambers  underneath  the 
fallen  cornice,  are  hidden  the  thirty  pieces  of  silver,  the 
cursed  coin  for  whose  possession  the  city  was  betrayed, 
and  the  heart  yielded  into  the  hands  of  the  world.  There, 
also,  hidden  in  still  darker  corners,  mouldering  in  decay, 
but  visible  even  yet,  are  the  bones  of  the  skeletons  of 

*  The  Scarlet  Sliau'l. 


FIRST  NOVELS  95 

those  who  perished  in  those  dark  days,  done  to  death  by 
treachery  at  the  gate.  Heap  up  the  ashes  upon  them  ; 
hide  them  out  of  sight  !  Yet,  deep  as  it  lies  hidden, 
heavy  and  dull  and  impenetrable  as  the  crust  may  be, 
there  shall  come  a  time  when  the  light  of  the  sun,  seen 
through  a  little  crevice,  shall  pour  in  its  brilliance  upon 
them,  and  shall  exhibit  these  chambers  of  imagery  to  the 
man  walking  in  day-time.  He  shall  awake,  and  shall  walk 
through  those  chambers  he  builded  in  the  olden  times  ; 
and  the  pictures  upon  the  walls  shall  pierce  his  soul. 

'  With  innumerable  hopes  and  fears,  with  hunger  and 
thirst,  with  the  pangs  of  birth  and  death,  innumerable 
multitudes  of  the  tiniest  creatures,  living  through  vast 
periods  of  time,  slowly  built  up  from  the  lower  ocean's  bed 
those  firm  and  rolling  downs  of  chalk  which  are  now  the 
homes  of  men.  How  slowly  events  happen  !  How  im- 
possible it  is  to  note  even  to  ourselves  the  imperceptible 
agencies,  the  countless  multitudes  of  thoughts  and  im- 
pulses, "  the  dreams  in  the  midst  of  business,"  which  by 
slow  degrees  wear  away  our  former  selves,  and  change  us 
without  our  knowing  it  ! 

'  He  could  not  have  told  why,  he  hid  it  from  himself 
at  first ;  but  it  forced  itself  by  slow  degrees  upon  him,  this 
sickly  odour  of  the  Tyrian  purple.' 

There  is  also  a  noticeable,  exuberant  and  flowing 
passage  of  this  kind  on  scarlet. 

The  development  of  the  story  is  conventional  and  of 
no  interest.  How  remote  the  book  is  from  the  real 
Jefferies,  if  not  from  the  surface  of  the  man  in  1874,  can 
be  guessed  from  the  unreality  of  such  reflections  as 
this: 

*  It  is  a  singular  fact  in  physiology  that  if  a  woman  is 
neither  very  beautiful  nor  very  attractive,  nor  in  any  way 
likely  to  get  married  herself,  she  is  pretty  sure  to  dote  on 
her  brother.  .  .  .' 

And  this  : 

*  There's  an  eclat  about  mischief  that  virtue  sighs  for  in 
vain.* 


96         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

There  is  also  a  '  laid  '  for  '  lay  '  in  this  most  vulnerable 
book. 

It  was  doubtless  rash  of  this  young  provincial  journalist 
to  spend  his  time  in  violent  efforts  to  understand  people 
whom  he  had  not  seen  and  did  not  really  care  about  ; 
but  it  is  clear  that,  though  he  failed  and  wrote  some 
inept  things,  and  was  guilty  of  a  flimsy  cynicism  and 
assumption  of  worldliness,  he  was  seeking  to  satisfy  a  need 
for  another  life  than  was  being  lived  around  him,  and  that 
he  satisfied  part  of  his  hunger  for  beauty  by  painting  this 
alien  life  and  indulging  in  these  coloured  images. 

'  The  Scarlet  Shawl '  was  published  in  1874,  and  in 
July  of  that  year,  at  Chisledon  Church,  he  married  Miss 
Jessie  Baden,  of  Day  House  Farm.  For  a  few  months 
they  lived  with  his  father  and  mother  at  Coate  Farm. 
Early  in  1875  they  moved  to  Victoria  Street,  Swindon, 
where  his  house  is  now  distinguished  by  a  mural  tablet. 
There  his  first  child  was  born.  He  tells  us  himself  that 
living  in  Swindon  was  unpleasant,  because  his  work  was 
wearisome  and  his  daily  pilgrimages  had  to  be  sus- 
pended. But  there  he  still  thought  his  old  thoughts, 
which  could  take  flight  from  a  birch-tree  visible  from  his 
window  '  across  the  glow  of  sunset.' 

*  Restless  Human  Hearts,'  his  next  published  novel, 
was  finished  before  October  9,  1874  ;  for  on  that  day  he 
told  Messrs.  Tinsley  that  the  manuscript  was  at  their 
disposal.  He  has  also,  he  goes  on  to  say,  '  a  book  of 
adventure  on  a  novel  plan  '  already  finished  ;  '  it  describes 
the  rise  to  power  of  an  intelligent  man  in  a  half-civilized 
country,  and  is  called  "  The  Rise  of  Maximus  "  ';  but  this 
was  never  published,  and  nothing  is  known  of  it.  '  Rest- 
less Human  Hearts  '  appeared  in  1875,  and  in  that  year 
he  mentions  two  other  books  that  were  never  published — 
'  In  Summer  Time  '  (a  novel),  and  '  The  New  Pilgrim's 
Progress  ;  or,  A  Christian's  Painful  Progress  from  the 
Town  of  Middle  Class  to  the  Golden  City.'  This  was 
also  the  year  of  '  Suez-cide  ;  or.  How  Miss  Britannia 
Bought  a  Dirty  Puddle  and  lost  her  Sugar  Plums.'     He 


FIRST  NOVELS  97 

thought  '  Restless  Human  Hearts  '  the  best  thing  he  had 
ever  written,  and  was  well  pleased  with  what  he  called  its 
'  odd  humour  '  and  '  original  positions.'  He  begins  to 
reveal  himself  at  once  in  it.  '  The  lives  of  some  among 
us,'  he  writes,  '  do  seem  in  some  peculiar  way  to  corre- 
spond with  the  singularities  of  Nature  .  .  .  persons 
whose  whole  being  vibrates  to  the  subtle  and  invisible 
touch  of  Nature,  are  alive  to-day.'  Such  words  help  to 
prove  that  he  was  writing  exactly  when,  in  '  The  Story  of 
My  Heart,'  he  traced  his  thoughts  back  through  his  early 
manhood  to  his  youth.  He  speaks  clearly  for  himself, 
in  the  presence  of  a  picture  at  Antwerp  Cathedral,  when 
he  points  to  the  artist's  '  sensual  spiritualism  :  which  is  a 
union  of  the  beauty  perceived  by  the  chaste  and  some- 
what sad  mind,  and  of  the  beauty  which  fascinates  the 
eye.'  The  description  applies  to  Jefferies  himself,  especi- 
ally as  he  shows  himself  in  '  The  Dewy  Morn.' 

His  heroine,  Heloise,  is  daughter  of  an  old  man  who 
'  could  not  be  happy  unless  he  heard  the  finches  sing 
when  he  woke  ' — those  greenfinches  that  sing  all  through 
Jefferies'  books.  He  lives  near  '  The  Sun '  at  '  Avon- 
bourne,'  by  the  Downs — '  downs  upon  whose  slopes  you 
might  lie  and  listen  to  the  whistling  of  the  breezes  through 
the  bennets  till  all  thought  of  the  world  and  its  conten- 
tions passes  out  of  the  mind.'  Heloise,  the  beautiful  girl 
at  one  with  Nature,  is  a  dim  sketch  for  the  Felise  of '  The 
Deviy  Morn  '  : 

'  Helo'ise's  heart  was  full  of  aspirings — after  she  knew 
not  what,  but  which  she  deemed  were  sacred  hopes. 
She  sat  under  the  old  chestnut-trees,  watching  the 
shadows  dancing,  and  let  these  feelings  have  their  way. 
She  climbed  up  the  steep-sided  downs,  and  choosing  a 
hollow  sheltered  from  the  wind,  lay  down  upon  the  soft 
th}TTiy  turf,  while  the  bees  flew  overhead  and  the  lark 
sang  high  above  her,  and  dreamt  day-dreams,  not  of 
heaven,  but  of  something — she  knew  not  what ;  of  a 
state  of  existence  all  and  every  hour  of  which  should  be 
light  and  joy  and  life.     It  was  one  of  her  fancies,  thus 

7 


98         THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

lying  on  the  broad  earth,  with  her  car  close  to  the  ground, 
that  she  could  feel  the  heart  of  the  world  throb  slowly 
far  underneath.'* 

She  found  in  an  English  Protestant  church  *  no  sun- 
shine, no  colour,  no  light ';  it  was  all  stone — dead.  But 
her  father  had  given  her  translations  from  the  classics, 
and  *  it  was  perhaps  from  these  that  these  fancies  '  grew. 
Her  father  '  wished  to  found  a  science  of  the  soul  ...  a 
science  of  the  higher  instincts,  the  higher  perceptions  and 
aspirations,  which  we  perceive  by  the  abstract  soul ';  and 
had  taught  his  daughter  '  to  listen  to  the  promptings 
of  the  soul  within  her  ;  to  distinguish  between  the  pseudo 
soul  and  the  true.'f  Here,  as  in  '  The  Story  of  M}'^  Heart,' 
Jefferies,  like  Maeterlinck,  feels  it  odd  that,  while  we  have 
physical  and  mental  training,  we  have  no  psychic  training. 

This  secluded  girl  marries  Louis,  a  dazzling  visitor  from 
the  world  of  London  society,  who  has  '  studied  the  most 
loathsome  and  coarsely  outre  states  of  life  '  from  a  desire  to 
see  man  in  his  '  nakedness.'  He  tires  of  her,  and  devotes 
himself  to  Carlotta,  her  half-sister,  a  peer's  wife.  In  a 
rage,  Louis  knocks  his  wife  down,  and  '  a  battered  warrior  ' 
whom  Carlotta  admires  becomes  the  admirer  of  Helo'ise. 
Louis  sometimes  beats  Carlotta,  and  some  stress  is  laid 
upon  this  voluptuous  cruelty.  Carlotta  replies  with 
scratches  and  bites.  Physical  violence  is  conspicuous  in 
the  book. 

Another  character  and  friend  of  Heloise  is  Georgiana 
Knoyle,  who  walks  '  as  those  antique  statues  would  have 
walked.'  She  is  a  strong,  pure  character  who  wishes 
her  lover  to  inaugurate  a  new  era  by  marrying  for  three 
years,  '  not  for  life.'  He  agrees  ;  they  enter  into  partner- 
ship, making  provision  for  possible  heirs.  They  compose 
a  '  new  marriage  service,  adapted  to  the  thought  of 
modern  days,  and  in  accordance  with  the  theory  that 
man  and  woman  are  socially  equal.'  There  should  be 
a  certain  amount  of  publicity  after  such  unions  ;  some 
*  duly  authorized  person  '  should  perform  the  ceremony  ; 

*  Reslless  Human  Hearts.  f  Ibid. 


FIRST  NOVELS  99 

there  should  be  registration  by  the  State.  Neville  is 
said  to  have  become  tired  of  Georgiana  very  soon.  He 
also,  like  Heloise,  is  repelled  by  hewn  stone,  but '  beneath 
the  shadow,  if  only  of  a  single  tree,'  he  says,  '  gazing 
dreamily  upwards  through  the  boughs  or  leaves  at  the 
azure  sky,  listening  to  the  breeze — "  the  sound  of  a  going 
in  the  tree-tops  " — there  is  a  something  that  enters  into 
me  and  carries  me  away  with  it  in  lofty  dreams  and 
hopes.' 

The  adventures  of  these  people  are  very  unreal,  and 
are  ill-chosen  for  the  bringing  out  of  their  several  remark- 
able characters.  Carlotta's  do  not  end  with  Louis,  but 
with  an  Austrian  Archduke.  Pierce,  Heloise's  father, 
becomes  *  Lord  Lestrange  '  by  the  death  of  a  relative. 
At  last  Georgiana  and  Neville,  Noel — the  '  battered 
warrior  ' — and  Heloise,  are  married  at  the  same  time. 
Neville  builds  a  '  temple  of  Nature,'  where  you  can  sit 
and  look  '  do\vn  the  long  aisle  of  columns  out  upon  the 
rolling  downs,'  and  beyond  them  the  sea ;  where  you  can 
hear  a  song  from  trees  and  hills  and  sun  :  Benedicite 
omnia  opera.* 

As  a  rule,  Jefferies'  treatment  of  his  characters  is  quite 
external ;  he  obviously  makes  them  do  this  or  that, 
instead  of  allowing  their  natures  to  work.  He  is  trying 
to  imagine  the  motives  of  people  who  always  give 
sovereigns  to  footmen.  '  Liar  and  traitor,  begone  !'  says 
one  man  to  another,  and  the  phrase  is  significant  of  some 
of  the  book.  But  it  is  full  of  intellectual  curiosity,  and 
among  the  expressions  of  opinion  to  be  found  in  the  fre- 
quent and  often  excellent  digressions,  one  or  two  may  be 
mentioned  as  signs  of  the  author's  developing  mind  and 
character. 

He  remarks  '  how  refreshing  it  is  to  pick  up  Froissart, 
or  even  Machiavelli's  "  Florence,"  '  because  they  had 
something  to  do  ;  their  life  was  real,  and  not  all  proxy 
and  pretence  like  our  own.  He  symbolizes  modern 
slavery  by  boots  : 

*  Restless  Human  Hearts. 

7—2 


loo       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

'  Socrates  and  Plato,  Leonidas  and  Caesar — all  the 
heroes — the  gods,  too,  walked  with  naked  feet  or  in 
sandals.  They  knew  nothing  of  Day  and  Martin.  Their 
feet  were  open,  free,  unrestrained.  Look  at  the  feet  of 
the  statues — how  beautiful  !  But  the  feet  in  those  boots 
— "  cabined,  cribbed,  confined,"  distorted,  somehow 
there  is  something  about  those  boots  at  which  my 
mind  revolts.  They  are  the  very  symbols  of  our  dirty 
macadamized  times.'*  This  playfulness  is  characteristic 
of  the  later  Jefferies,  and  occasionally  reached  a  con- 
siderable ironic  charm. 

Landseer's  paintings,  says  one  of  his  characters,  '  were 
anything  but  well  painted.  .  .  .  but  the  idea  carried 
away  the  mind  ';  he  speaks  of  the  '  magic  charm  of  the 
marvellous  Dore — instinct  with  Mind,  with  Idea,  with 
Life.'t 

Sculptors  he  calls  '  prophets  of  the  body,  the  apostles 
of  matter  ;  and  their  prophecies  are  perhaps  even  farther 
off  from  fulfilment  than  those  of  the  prophets  of  the 
soul,  .  .  .  While  we  pursue  the  beautiful  so  long  it  is 
impossible  for  us  to  commit  sin. 'J 

Three  chapters — those  describing  the  life  and  labours 
of  the  Abbe  in  the  prison  on  the  French  island — in  Dumas' 
'  Monte  Cristo  '  ought,  he  says,  to  be  printed  '  at  the  end 
of  the  Apocrypha.' 

It  should  also  be  noticed  as  another  early  instance  of 
Jefferies'  interest  in  telepathy  that  when  Heloise  is  burnt 
at  an  hotel,  her  brother-in-law  hears  her  scream  across 
the  roar  of  traffic,  though  he  did  not  know  before  that  she 
was  in  London. 

With  all  its  faults,  the  book  marks  a  great  advance  in 
ideas  upon  '  The  Scarlet  Shawl.' 

In  '  World's  End,'  a  novel  published  in  1877,  there  is 
again  abundant  evidence  of  Jefferies'  character  ;  he  is 
evidently  coming  more  and  more  to  regard  his  own 
thoughts  and  adventures  as  possible  material  for  his  books. 
It  opens  with    a    passage  in  which  Jefferies'  uncertain 

*  Restless  Human  Hearts.  t  ^^^'^-  t  ^^^'^^ 


FIRST  NOVELS  loi 

ironical  humour  combines  with  his  peculiar  sense  of  the 
power  of  Time  and  Fate.  It  tells  how  a  black  rat  founded 
the  city  of  Stirmingham  by  gnawing  the  root  of  a  willow 
so  that  it  fell  and  dammed  a  stream  which  had  once  flowed 
through  a  barren  land.  The  stream  spread  and  made  a 
marsh  ;  reeds  and  willows  sprang  up,  and  gipsies  came 
for  the  withies  and  the  wild-fowl,  and  made  a  settlement, 
from  which  the  city  grew.  The  story  concerns  the 
'  great  Baskette  claim  case,'  various  descendants  of  the 
early  squatters  putting  forward  their  claim  to  the  now 
valuable  land.  Only  in  the  second  volume  is  '  World's 
End '  reached,  a  lonely  place  at  cross-roads  among  the 
Downs,  where  there  was  a  fine  natural  race-course  (like 
the  Burderop  race-course  under  Barbury  Hill)  under  the 
castle  of  Berbury  hill.  To  the  local  races  comes  Aymer 
Malet,  a  plainly-dressed,  very  pale  young  man,  like 
Jefferies,  '  whose  slight  frame  gave  him  an  effeminate 
appearance.'  He  is  a  '  born  genius,'  who  remembers 
one  golden  year  in  London,  when  he  had  his  own  way  in 
a  library  and  in  the  art  galleries.  His  dead  father  lost 
all  by  racing,  and  he,  like  Jefferies,  wires  ground  game,  and 
sells  it  to  carriers,  and  so  is  able  to  buy  Bohn's  trans- 
lations of  the  Greek  poets,  philosophers,  and  drama- 
tists, also  '  most  of  the  English  poets,  a  few  historians, 
and  a  large  number  of  scientific  works  ';  for  he  is  devoured 
by  a  desire  to  understand  '  the  stars  that  shone  so  brightly 
upon  those  hills.'  When  he  has  read  a  book  he  sells  it 
at  half-price  and  buys  others.  '  He  saw — he  felt  Nature. 
.  .  .  The  wind  spoke  to  him  in  mystic  language.  .  .  . 
His  books  were  thought  through,'  not  merely  read.  He 
speculates  whether  there  may  be  creatures  in  front  of 
men,  as  there  are  animals  behind.  He  longs  to  escape 
from  his  uncle,  Martin  Brown.  '  The  sun  beckoned  him 
to  the  distant  sea.'  Once  he  had  escaped,  but  was 
forced  back  '  amid  the  jeers  of  acquaintances,'  as  Jefferies 
was.  But  he  reached  Florence,  and  there  stood  before 
the  Venus  de  Medici,  '  rapt  in  thought,  and  then  suddenly 
burst  into  tears.'     There  he  had  met  Lady  Lechester, 


102       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

owner  of  an  estate  near  his  home  in  Wiltshire.  He  had 
walked  home  from  Dover,  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  often 
sleeping  under  ricks. 

In  May,  as  Aymer  is  lying  amid  brake  on  the  Downs, 
reading  '  the  tiny  edition  of  Shakespeare's  "  Songs  and 
Sonnets,"  published  by  William  Brown  thirty  years 
since,  and  now  out  of  print,'  Violet  Waldron  rides  up  on 
a  black  horse.  She  lives  with  her  father,  who  is  fond  of 
his  trees  ('  those  who  plant  trees  live  long,'  he  quotes), 
his  yew  hedge  and  filbert  walk — as  Felise  Goring  lived 
with  her  uncle  in  '  The  Dewy  Mom.'  Aymer  snares 
twenty  hares  and  sells  a  gold  pencil-case,  and  then, 
walking  to  Reading,  buys  jet  bracelets  for  Violet's  wrist. 
Jefferies  praises  Violet  not  for  her  features,  hair  and  eyes, 
so  much  as  for  '  the  life,  the  vitality,  the  wonderful 
freshness  which  seemed  to  throw  a  sudden  light  over  her, 
as  when  the  sunshine  falls  upon  a  bed  of  flowers.'  She 
plays  Mendelssohn  to  him  ;  he  gives  her  lessons  in  draw- 
ing, which  she  repays  in  music  and  French.  Old  Waldron 
gives  him  a  horse,  and  suggests  that  he  should  marry 
Violet  and  live  in  his  house.  At  the  altar  '  her  dress  was 
good — it  was  nothing  to  the  belles  who  flourish  in  Bel- 
gravia  ;  but  at  World's  End — goodness,  it  was  Paris 
itself.'  But  the  marriage  is  interrupted  by  the  murder 
of  Waldron  ;  the  ring  rolls  away.  '  Of  all  that  the 
ancients  venerated  and  feared,'  remarks  Jefferies,  '  neces- 
sity alone  remains  a  factor  in  modern  life.'  Violet  is 
penniless  now.  Aymer  tries  in  vain  to  write  while  his 
hands  and  body  are  numbed  by  cold,  as  Amaryllis  tried 
to  draw,  and  as  Jefferies  must  have  tried  to  write  by 
the  northward  lattice  in  the  cheese-room  at  Coate  Farm. 
He  becomes  a  clerk  in  a  la\vycr's  office,  and  in  the  courts 
he  sees  jobbery  and  corruption,  '  class  prejudice  operating 
in  the  minds  of  those  on  the  jugdment-seat.'  Aymer 
writes  a  book,  is  advised  to  bring  it  out  at  his  own 
expense,  and  it  goes  into  three  editions  without  his 
knowing  it — which  is  a  point  where  Aymer's  career  is 
unlike  Jefferies'.     Then  among  some  old  newspapers  he 


FIRST  NOVELS  103 

gets  into  the  labyrinth  of  the  Baskette  case,  and,  finally, 
the  Waldrons  are  shown  to  have  a  claim.  Aymer  and 
Violet  marry,  and  the  borough  of  Stirmingham  allows 
them  £8,000  a  year.  Into  this  labyrinth  it  is  unnecessary 
to  go,  though  it  was,  in  Jefferies'  opinion,  the  principal 
attraction  of  his  three  volumes. 

Lady  Lechester's  character  reveals  some  of  Jefferies' 
interests  at  this  time.  Thus,  she  suddenly  springs  up 
from  her  luncheon-table,  and  says  she  must  go  to  meet 
her  lover,  a  soldier.  She  goes  on  talking  as  if  to  some- 
one with  her,  and  is  heard  saying  :  '  Walter,  what  does 
that  red  spot  on  your  forehead  mean  ?  Are  you  angry  ?' 
A  month  later  she  hears  of  his  death  from  a  bullet  in 
the  forehead.  Afterwards,  near  where  she  had  her 
vision  of  Walter,  she  used  to  meet  '  something,'  beautiful 
and  '  half  human,  half  divine,'  a  supernatural  genius  of 
the  place. 

There  is  a  gipsy  in  the  book  who  wanders  about  playing 
'  weird  music  '  on  a  whistle.  He  has  large  ears,  and  seems 
a  careless  sketch  of  a  kind  of  Pan. 

One  character  takes  us  back  to  Jefferies'  earliest  fiction, 
for  he  has  a  'private  cremation  stove.'  Except  Aymer 
and  Violet,  her  father  and  Lady  Lechester,  the  characters 
are  out  of  his  reach  ;  and  the  length  and  complexity  of  the 
tale  are  merely  obstacles,  and  not  conquerable  kingdoms, 
to  his  heroic  persistency.  Yet  the  best  things  in  the  book 
are  the  best  things  he  has  yet  done,  or  the  most  promising, 
since  they  foretell  the  outdoor  and  the  autobiographical 
elements  in  the  work  of  his  maturity. 

In  the  year  after  the  appearance  of  '  World's  End  '  he 
offered  a  version  of  '  The  Dewy  Morn  '  to  a  publisher,  but 
that  book  as  it  was  in  1884  belongs  to  a  later  period. 
The  last  of  the  early  novels  is  '  Greene  Feme  Farm,' 
published  as  a  serial  in  Time  of  the  year  1879,  and  in  a 
single  volume  in  1880.  Its  characters  are  May  Fisher 
and  Margaret  Estcourt ;  Valentine  Browne  and  Geoffrey 
Newton,  friends  and  rival  lovers  of  Margaret ;  the  Rev. 
Felix  St.  Bees,  May's  lover  ;  and  old  Andrew  Fisher,  a 


104       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

miller  and  miser,  May's  grandfather.  The  rivalry  of 
Valentine  and  Geoffrey  is  only  ended  by  a  fight  with  guns 
in  a  double  hedge,  an  accidental  offence  setting  fire  to 
their  smouldering  hate.  Geoffrey  marries  Margaret, 
and  Felix  May,  without  any  important  conflict  of  char- 
acters or  display  of  manners,  but  with  enough  incident 
to  make  so  short  a  book  just  barely  acceptable  to  a  mere 
reader  of  novels. 

Geoffrey  represents  part  of  Jefferies  himself,  especially, 
perhaps,  in  the  unseen  watching  of  his  sweetheart  in  the 
sunlit  woods,  '  rapt  in  the  devotion  of  the  artist,  till  a 
sense  came  over  him  like  that  feeling  which  the  Greeks 
embodied  in  the  punishment  that  fell  on  those  who  look 
unbidden  upon  the  immortals.'  Only  Jefferies  could  have 
made  him  pause  to  admire  the  drop  of  blood  on  her  white, 
polished  skin  before  drawing  out  a  thorn  from  her  thumb. 
When  he  writes  of  Geoffrey  watching  the  dawn,  he  inevit- 
ably describes  his  own  impression  : 

'  .  .  .  Out  from  the  last  fringe  of  mist  shone  a  great 
white  globe,  like  molten  silver,  glowing  with  a  lusciousness 
of  light,  soft  and  yet  brilliant,  so  large  and  bright,  and 
seemingly  so  near — but  just  above  the  ridge  yonder — 
shining  with  heavenly  splendour  in  the  very  dayspring. 
He  knew  Eosphoros,  the  Light-Bringcr,  the  morning  star 
of  hope  and  joy  and  love,  and  his  heart  went  out  towards 
the  beauty  and  the  glory  of  it.  Under  him  the  broad 
bosom  of  the  earth  seemed  to  breathe  instinct  with  life, 
bearing  him  up,  and  from  the  azure  ether  came  the 
wind,  filling  his  chest  with  the  vigour  of  the  young 
day. 

'  The  azure  ether — yes,  and  more  than  that  !  Who 
that  has  seen  it  can  forget  the  wondrous  beauty  of  the 
summer  morning's  sky  ?  It  is  blue — it  is  sapphire — it  is 
like  the  eyes  of  a  lovely  woman.  A  rich  purple  shines 
through  it ;  no  painter  ever  approached  tlie  colour  of  it, 
no  Titian  or  other,  none  from  the  beginning.  Not  even 
the  golden  flesh  of  Rubens'  women,  through  the  veins  in 
whose  limbs  a  sunlight  pulses  in  lieu  of  blood  shining 


FIRST  NOVELS  105 

behind  the  tissues,  can  equal  the  hues  that  glow  behind 
the  blue.  .  .  .'* 

It  must  be  put  to  the  credit  of  the  form  of  fiction  that 
Jefferies  here  and  in  the  other  novels  has  a  depth  and 
humanity  in  his  feeling  for  Nature  which  are  absent  from 
all  his  early  country  books  like  '  The  Gamekeeper  at 
Home.'  His  attempts,  however  vain,  to  describe  human 
action  and  passion  led  him  to  search  deeps  of  his  own 
nature  that  might  otherwise  have  been  unsounded  ;  and, 
almost  without  value  as  a  whole,  his  novels  were  thus 
an  exercise  which  he  could  ill  have  done  without,  and  of 
considerable  use  as  autobiography.  In  '  Greene  Feme 
Farm  '  there  are  several  things  worth  pausing  over  :  the 
Wiltshire  dialogue  always,  and  especially  where  the 
mower  talks  of  the  old-fashioned  scythes  '  made  of  dree 
sarts  of  wood  ';  the  picture  of  Old  Andrew  Fisher  in  his 
beehive  chair,  sitting  there  in  the  sun-heat  of  his  ninetieth 
summer — the  hard  old  man  who  kept  three  old  men  at 
work  on  the  threshing-floor,  '  not  for  charity,  but  because 
he  liked  to  listen  to  the  knock-knock  of  the  flails,'  and 
threw  his  blackthorn  at  the  parson  who  wanted  his  grand- 
daughter ('  Drew  this  veller  out  !  Douse  un  in  th'  hog- 
vault  !  Thee  nimity-pimity  odd-me-dod  !  I  warn  thee'd 
like  my  money  !  Drot  thee  and  thee  wench  !')  ;  Augus- 
tus, the  drunken  baiUff' s  portrait,  with  his  '  A  man's 
made  just  like  a  pig  inside  ';  and  the  death-scene  of 
Andrew,  where  the  gaunt,  wrinkled,  weary  gleaners,  going 
homeward,  curtsey  with  hateful  hearts  as  they  pass  near 
the  chair  where  he  sits  cold  and  stiff.  Jefferies'  sad 
humour  comes  out  again  in  the  walk  through  Kingsbury 
(Swindon)  back-streets  : 

'  Down  in  the  back-streets  they  found  that  Melting-Pot, 
the  pewter  tankard,  in  fuU  operation.  Men  and  women 
were  busy  keeping  it  full,  while  their  children,  with  naked 
feet,  played  in  the  gutter  among  the  refuse  of  the  dust- 
heap,  decayed  cabbage,  mangy  curs,  and  filth.  The 
ancient  alchemists  travailed  to  transmute  the  baser 
*  Greene  Feme  Farm. 


io6       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

metals  into  gold  ;  in  these  days  whole  townships  are  at 
work  transmuting  gold  and  silver  into  pewter.  All  the 
iron  foundries,  patent  blasts,  and  Bessemer  processes  in 
the  world  cannot  equal  the  melting  power  of  the  pewter 
tankard.'* 

Then  there  are  three  verses  by  Jefferies,  called  '  Noon- 
tide in  the  Meadow,'  to  be  quoted  only  to  show  how  he 
gives  away  all  that  he  has  for  the  mere  form  of  verse  : 

*  Idly  silent  were  the  finches — 

Finches  fickle,  fleeting,  blithe  ; 
And  the  mower,  man  of  inches, 
Ceased  to  swing  the  sturdy  scythe. 

'  All  the  leafy  oaks  were  slumb'rous  ; 

Slumb'rous  e'en  the  honey-bee  ; 
And  his  larger  brother,  cumbrous, 
Humming  home  with  golden  knee. 

*  But  the  blackbird,  king  of  hedgerows — 

Hedgerows  to  my  memory  dear — 
By  the  brook,  where  rush  and  sedge  grows, 
Sang  his  liquid  love-notes  clear.'f 

Altogether,  it  is  an  honest  book ;  true  to  the  writer's 
experience,  wherever  it  is  possible,  and  often  of  an 
assured  imaginative  fidelity  :  yet  a  sad  one  to  read, 
because  Jefferies  has  not  had  the  luck  to  hit  upon  a  matter 
that  will  give  full  play  to  the  best,  and  nothing  but  the 
best,  that  is  in  him.  But,  like  the  other  three  novels, 
this  one  must  have  temporarily  satisfied  and  permanently 
fortified  that  part  of  his  nature  which  neither  the  agricul- 
tural articles  nor  the  books  like  '  Wild  Life  in  a  Southern 
County  '  could  touch. 

*  Greene  Feme  Fann.  f  Ibid. 


CHAPTER  VII 

FIRST  COUNTRY  ESSAYS 

Three  short  essays  in  the  Graphic  of  1875  and  1876  have 
nothing  in  them  to  be  compared  with  the  best  parts  of 
the  early  novels,  but  are  interesting  because  they  are  a 
beginning  even  more  important  than  the  earlier  letters  to 
the  Times.  They  are  '  Marlborough  Forest,'  '  Village 
Churches,'  and  '  The  Midsummer  Hum.'  Of  a  length  to 
meet  the  needs  of  a  weekly  paper,  they  have  already  the 
form  and  observation  and  sentiment  of  the  essays  which 
afterwards  went  to  make  '  The  Gamekeeper  at  Home,' 
*  Wild  Life  in  a  Southern  County,'  '  Nature  near  London,' 
and  most  of  the  later  books.  In  them  Nature  and  country 
things  are  described  from  the  point  of  view  of  one  who 
is  not  merely  a  sportsman,  or  a  naturalist,  or  an  agri- 
culturist, or  an  archaeologist,  though  he  may  play  all 
those  parts ;  but  of  a  human  being,  sensuous,  observant, 
reflective,  who  enjoys  '  doing  nothing  *  out  of  doors. 
Jefferies  had  many  predecessors.  Gilbert  White,  an  un- 
fertile literary  genius  and  an  all-round  countryman,  in 
the  course  of  his  incomparable  letters  to  Pennant  and 
Barrington,  had  come,  as  it  always  appears,  by  accident 
or  divine  grace,  to  express  with  perfect  felicity  his  experi- 
ence and  enjoyment  of  life  in  the  country.  But  his 
book  has  to  carry  with  it  a  considerable  dead-weight  of 
what  is  or  was  only  matter  of  fact.  He  was  in  the  first 
place  a  naturalist ;  and  it  was  improbable  that,  if  he  had 
any  contemporary  influence,  it  would  be  felt  except  by 
naturalists.  Few  of  his  successors  approach  him  in 
literary  importance.  Waterton,  a  gentleman  of  good 
family,  whose  '  Essays  on  Natural  History '  appeared  in 
1838,  had  the  charm  of  a  genuine  zeal  and  affection  for 

107 


io8       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

wild  life.  His  notes  on  the  rook,  for  example,  are  in  the 
spirit  of  the  plainest  passages  in  Jefferies'  '  Wild  Life.' 
They  state  matters  of  fact  of  no  great  significance  in  a 
manner  showing  that  he  has  enjoyed  observing  them  him- 
self ;  yet  he  can  attract  few  not  specially  interested  in 
birds.  His  affection  does  not  involve  the  whole  man, 
but  is  in  the  nature  of  a  hobby,  however  much  time  it 
may  have  filled.  St.  John  (who  knew  Wiltshire  as  a  boy, 
and  trapped  wheatears  on  the  Downs)  is  an  intelligent, 
healthy,  outdoor  man,  fond  of  scenery,  and  with  an  eye 
for  such  things  as  a  party  of  Gaels  bringing  bright  fish  to 
the  piny  shore  of  a  Higliland  lake  under  the  moon.  His 
enjoyment  was  probably  great,  but  it  is  not  a  great  ele- 
ment in  his  book,  however  much  we  may  import  into  it 
from  our  liking  for  him.  He  is  a  fine  man,  but  he  is  not 
an  artist,  and  the  reader  does  half  the  work  of  producing 
his  admirable  effects.  His  '  Short  Sketches  of  the  Wild 
Sports  and  Natural  History  of  the  Highlands  '  appeared 
in  1846.  In  the  next  year  came  Edward  Jesse's 
'  Favourite  Haunts  and  Rural  Studies.'  This  author 
would  like  to  give  the  cottagers  '  a  stake  in  this  country 
worth  fighting  for.'  He  likes  to  see  them  on  Sunday 
having  tea  in  the  garden  ;  and  there  is  real  satisfaction 
in  his  picture  of  the  interior  of  a  cottage,  the  flitch  of 
bacon  on  the  rack,  the  dried  pot-herbs  and  string  of  onions, 
the  warming-pan  shining  in  the  corner.  His  '  Month  of 
May — a  Rural  Walk,'  with  his  mowers  and  haymakers 
and  birds  singing,  is  one  of  the  earliest  pieces  of  the  kind 
in  prose  ;  but  if  it  sprang  from  a  real  delight  in  the  country, 
no  soul  or  blood  has  suffused  the  words,  and  they  are 
dead.  Two  years  later,  in  1849,  appeared  Knox's 
'  Ornithological  Rambles  in  Sussex.'  He  is  an  ornitholo- 
gist and  sportsman.  There  is  a  careless  charm,  not  in- 
comparable to  that  of  Jefferies'  earlier  work,  about  his 
descriptions  of  shooting  in  the  Weald,  and  of  the  lane  from 
Petworth  to  Parham,  and  of  the  wild  open  country,  the 
nightingales  in  the  little  copses  of  blackthorn  and  dwarf 
oak,  the  common  which  provides  the  best  sport  a  man 
could  desire  '  on  this  side  of  Tweed.'     Buckland,  whose 


FIRST  COUNTRY  ESSAYS  109 

*  Curiosities  of  Natural  History  '  was  published  in  1857,  is 
simply  a  curious,  chatty  naturalist  with  some  stories  to 
tell ;  and  when  he  does  not  appeal  to  naturalists,  as  in 
'  Whitmonday  at  Harting,'  he  has  not  enough  humanity 
to  appeal  to  anyone  else.  Kingsley,  in  his  '  Prose  Idylls  ' 
of  1873,  is  sportsman,  naturalist,  historian,  clergyman, 
and  country  gentleman.  They  are  in  dialogue,  and  they 
are  bluff,  hard,  and  superficial ;  but  they  belong  to  the 
same  class  as  Jefferies'  essays,  from  which  they  differ 
chiefly  in  this :  that  while  his  lead  us  to  the  writer's  per- 
sonality through  Nature,  Kingsley's  lead  us  to  Nature 
through  the  writer's  personality,  and  if  that  is  not  liked 
by  the  reader,  his  pictures,  etc.,  are  unendurable. 

In  these  early  essays  of  1875  and  1876  Jefferies  sets  him- 
self the  unusual  and  difficult  task  of  reflecting  m  prose 
the  solitary  enjoyment  of  Nature,  without  any  of  the 
resources  of  these  predecessors  in  sport  or  natural  history, 
without  the  aid  even  of  any  passion,  as  of  love,  except 
what  Nature  herself  inspires.  In  '  Marlborough  Forest ' 
he  mentions  the  Civil  War,  saying  that  it  did  not  touch  the 
forest ;  but  he  relies  for  his  effect  upon  the  leaves  and 
fruits,  the  pathless  bracken,  the  woodpeckers  and  jays, 
the  pack  of  stoats,  the  fighting  stags,  the  beech  avenue, 
and  the  inhuman  quiet.  As  he  says  himself,  '  The  subtle 
influence  of  Nature  penetrates  every  limb  and  every  vein, 
fills  the  soul  with  a  perfect  contentment,  an  absence  of 
all  wish  except  to  lie  there  half  in  sunshine,  half  in  shade 
for  ever,  in  a  Nirvana  of  indifference  to  all  but  the  ex- 
quisite delight  of  simply  living.'  But  he  fails  as  yet  to 
convey  that  influence,  to  produce  more  than  a  readable 
article  which  only  the  careless  townsman  or  unobservant 
countryman  can  much  enjoy.  In  '  Village  Churches ' 
he  has  the  aid  of  memory,  quoting  from  '  Faust  ': 

'  Dim  dream-like  forms  I  your  shadowy  train 
Around  me  gathers  once  again.' 

A  phrase  like  '  a  visible  silence,  which  at  once  isolates 
the  soul,  separates  it  from  external  present  influences, 
and  compels  it,  in  falling  back  upon  itself,  to  recognize  its 
own  depths  and  powers,'  has  its  value  as  a  glimpse  of 


no       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

Jefferies  himself ;  and  the  rooks  at  the  acorns,  the  steep 
Downs,  and  the  rustling  of  the  grass  over  the  Chisledon 
graves,  the  epitaph  and  the  silence,  the  ticking  of  the 
clock,  gave,  perhaps,  a  new  kind  of  pleasure  to  newspaper 
readers  in  1876,  but  are  memorable  only  as  a  beginning. 
One  of  the  most  interesting  parts  of  the  essay  is  that  on 
the  days  of  the  handicrafts,  when  '  men  put  their  souls 
into  their  works,'  and  it  was  not  their  object  '  to  turn 
out  a  hundred  thousand  all  alike  ' — when  the  Aldboume 
bell-founder,  for  a  local  fame,  '  worked  as  truly,  and  in  as 
careful  a  manner,  as  if  he  had  known  his  bell  was  to  be 
hung  in  St.  Peter's  at  Rome.'  We  know  all  about  that 
now,  but  in  1875  it  was  an  achievement  for  the  Swindon 
journalist  to  announce  that '  this  was  the  true  spirit  of  art.' 
He  always  kept  this  love  of  handicrafts,  though  he  might 
have  made  more  use  of  his  local  knowledge  of  them,  just 
as  he  might  have  done  with  the  folk-songs  and  dialect 
of  North  Wiltshire  had  he  recognized  their  value.  In 
'  The  Midsummer  Hum,'  which,  unlike  the  other  two,  is 
signed  '  R.  Jefferies,'  there  is  a  cheerful  sketch  of '  Uptill- 
a-thorn '  of  later  days.  Lucy  Lockett  and  Absalom 
Brown  are  lovers ;  Mr.  Martin,  a  gentleman,  admires  the 
girl  in  the  hayfield,  but  in  the  end  secretly  gives  the  Vicar 
twenty  pounds  for  Absolom  and  Lucy  when  they  are 
married — Lucy,  with  '  small  nose,  slightly  retrousse  and 
impertinent,'  is  '  a  laughing,  thoughtless,  impulsive 
creature,  full  of  life,  and  joyous  as  the  sunshine — like  the 
young  June  with  its  opening  roses.'  She  is  a  shadow,  only 
a  shadow,  of  one  of  Jefferies'  beautiful  animated  women. 
His  village  mason  sings  a  version  of  '  When  Joan's  ale 
was  new '  : 

'  Zo,  he  flung  his  hammer  agen  the  wall, 
An'  prayed  as  the  church  an'  the  steeple  might  fall, 
An'  thus  med  be  work  for  masons  all 
When  Jones'  ale  was  new.' 

Other  slender  essays  of  this  kind  might  probably  be 
found  in  the  newspapers  of  about  1876,  but  it  was  not 
until  the  Surbiton  days  that  Jefferies  found  how  easy  it 
was  to  put  down  his  country  lore  in  this  form. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN  LONDON  AND  THE  SUBURBS 

A  GREAT  part  of  1876 — his  twenty-eighth  year — was 
spent  at  Sydenham,  and  about  that  time  his  earliest 
descriptive  essays  appeared  in  the  Graphic.  He  must 
have  gone  up  to  find  a  suitable  house  near  London,  yet 
at  the  edge  of  the  country,  and  to  make  sure  of  his 
journalistic  connections.  This  was  that  bitter  time  of 
which  he  speaks  in  '  The  Story  of  My  Heart,'  when  it  was 
necessary  to  be  separated  from  his  family.  '  There  is 
little  indeed,'  he  wrote,  '  in  the  more  immediate  suburbs 
of  London  to  gratify  the  sense  of  the  beautiful.  Yet 
there  was  a  cedar  by  which  I  used  to  walk  up  and  down 
and  think  the  same  thoughts  as  under  the  great  oak  in 
the  solitude  of  the  sunlit  meadows.'  Early  in  1877  he 
and  his  wife  and  child  left  Victoria  Street,  Swindon,  for 
2,  Woodside,  Surbiton.  Woodside  is  a  small  block  of 
whitish,  stuccoed,  flat-fronted  houses  of  two  stories, 
just  beyond  the  last  shops  and  just  before  Douglas 
Road,  on  the  right-hand  side  of  the  Ewell  road  as  you 
go  to  Tolworth  by  the  electric  tram.  No.  2  is  the  second 
house  towards  Ewell,  and  has  a  poor  small  fir  behind  the 
railings  of  the  front  garden.  It  has  been  overtaken  by 
London  for  some  time,  though  its  front  windows  have  a 
swelling,  leafy  view  of  Hounslow,  Richmond  Park,  and 
Wimbledon  Common  on  one  side,  and  of  Hook,  Chessing- 
ton,  Claygate,  and  their  woods,  on  the  other.  Tolworth 
Farm  is  but  a  few  yards  past  the  tramway  terminus  ;  and 
the  flat,  elmy  meadows,  though  they  retain  the  scattered 

III 


112       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

houses  and  ricks  of  what  was  once  a  hamlet,  have  a 
dejected  and  demoralized  air  of  defeat  by  the  city.  At 
Tolworth  Court  Farm,  some  way  beyond,  there  is  a  good 
row  of  conical  corn-ricks,  and  a  tiled  barn  with  pigeons 
above,  and  a  reedy  pond,  where  the  Ewell  road  bends 
just  before  crossing  the  HogsmiU  River  by  an  elm- 
shaded  bridge.  Farther  still  are  long  woods  on  the  left, 
having  rooks'  nests  in  their  oaks  ;  and  out  from  the  green 
leaves  dashes  the  lofty  chariot  of  a  superb  American, 
sounding  a  horn  that  sets  his  half-dozen  carriage-hounds 
capering,  and  his  horses  going  ten  miles  an  hour — a 
magnificent  Old  English  display.  There  are  still  two 
fords  through  the  bright  Hogsmill  close  by — one  near 
Ruxley  Farm,  one  at  the  '  Bones  Gate  '  turning ;  one  is 
mentioned  in  '  Footpaths,'  an  essay  in  '  Nature  near 
London.'  Squares  of  plough-land,  mangolds,  grass, 
stubble,  and  mustard  succeed  one  another  in  the  autumn. 
Beyond,  south-east,  are  Banstead  Downs  ;  south-west, 
the  woods  of  Barwell  Court,  of  Esher  Common,  Oxshott 
and  Fairmile.  Except  on  a  few  Saturdays  and  Sundays 
this  is  a  deep,  quiet  country  even  now.  The  American's 
horn  shatters  the  quiet  into  fragments  that  reassemble 
most  easily  ;  but  in  Jefferies'  day  it  had  still  more  rural 
elements  left. 

In  his  first  spring  there  he  was  '  astonished  and  de- 
lighted '  by  the  richness  of  the  bird-life  ;  he  never  knew 
so  many  nightingales.  He  saw  herons  go  over,  and  a 
teal.  Magpies  were  common,  and  he  records  ten  together 
on  September  9,  1881,  within  twelve  miles  of  Charing 
Cross.  There  were  the  same  happy  greenfinches — his 
favourite  birds — which  '  never  cease  love-making  in  the 
elms.'  The  beautiful  white  bryony  grew  over  the  hedges. 
'  Birds,'  he  notes,  '  care  nothing  for  appropriate  sur- 
roundings.' He  was  awakened  by  the  workmen's  trains 
in  the  March  mornings,  yet  when  he  saw  the  orange- 
tinted  light  upon  the  ceiling,  '  something  in  the  sense  of 
morning  lifted  the  heart  up  to  the  sun.'  Almost  at  his 
door  was  a  copse  of  Scotch  and  spruce  fir,  hornbeam, 


IN  LONDON  AND  THE  SUBURBS  113 

birch,  and  ash — now  vanished — where  he  used  to  watch 
dove  and  pigeon,  cuckoo,  nightingale,  sedge-warbler, 
and  missel-thrush.  Once  a  pair  of  house-martins  buUt 
under  his  eaves,  and  the  starlings  were  welcome,  though 
they  dammed  the  gutter.  Among  many  flowers  here 
was  the  fairest  of  those  belonging  to  the  Wiltshire  down- 
land — the  '  blue  meadow  geranium,'  or  crane's-bill.  He 
was  the  first  to  point  out  that  the  flowers  have  sought 
sanctuary  on  the  sides  of  railway  cuttings  and  embank- 
ments. 

The  cart-horses  of  the  neighbouring  farms  wore  '  the 
ancient  harness,  with  bells  under  high  hoods,  or  belfries — 
bells  well  attuned,  too,  and  not  far  inferior  to  those  rung 
by  hand-bell  men.'  The  farmhouses,  the  stone  staddles 
for  the  corn-ricks,  were  old  ;  so,  too,  the  broad  and  red- 
faced  labourers,  with  fringe  of  reddish  whiskers.  *  Could 
we  look  back  three  hundred  years,  just  such  a  man  would 
be  seen  in  the  midst  of  the  same  surroundings,  deliber- 
ately trudging  round  the  straw-ricks  of  Elizabethan  days, 
calm  and  complacent,  though  the  Armada  be  at  hand.' 
The  Irish,  some  of  them  without  a  word  of  English,  came 
harvesting  in  their  long-tailed  coats,  breeches,  and 
worsted  stockings,  '  with  a  quick,  easy  gait  and  springy 
step,  quite  distinct  from  the  Saxon  stump.'  There  was 
a  village  shop  among  cherry  and  pear  orchards — '  the 
sweets,  and  twine,  and  trifles  are  such  as  may  be  seen  in 
similar  meadows  a  hundred  miles  distant.' 

It  was  no  wonder,  then,  that  Jefferies  kept  his  love 
of  walking,  though  Northern  Surrey  has  not  the  same 
temptations  to  long  walks  as  the  Downs.  He  walked 
regularly  for  an  hour  and  a  half  in  the  morning,  and  for 
the  same  time  in  the  afternoon,  and  would  rise  from  his 
work  at  odd  times  to  stroll  round  Tolworth.  He  liked 
to  repeat  his  walks  again  and  again,  as  he  did  in  Wiltshire. 
'  From  my  home  near  London  I  made  a  pilgrimage  almost 
daily,'  he  writes,  '  to  an  aspen  by  a  brook  ';  and  this  would 
probably  be  the  Hogsmill  near  Tolworth  Court  Farm. 
By  those  walks  he  not  only  escaped  from  the  '  constant 

8 


114      THE    LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

routine  of  house-life,  the  same  work,  the  same  thought  in 
the  work,  the  little  circumstances  regularly  recurring,' 
which  '  will  dull  the  keenest  edge  of  thought,'  but  could 
repeat  his  prayer,  his  '  inexpressible  desire  of  physical 
life,  of  soul  life,  equal  to  and  beyond  the  highest  imagin- 
ing of  his  heart.'  In  '  Woodlands  '  he  describes  Wood- 
stock Lane  from  Long  Ditton  to  Claygate,  and  Prince's 
Lane  and  Prince's  Covers  ;  in  '  Footpaths,'  Chessington 
Church  ;  the  Ewell  road  in  '  Flocks  of  Birds  ';  Oxshott 
in  '  Heathlands ';  Thames  Ditton  in  '  The  Modem 
Thames  ';  the  now  altered  lane  from  Woodstock  Lane  to 
Ditton  Hill  in  '  Round  a  London  Copse  ';  an  old  orchard 
at  the  corner  of  Langley  Avenue  and  Ditton  Hill,  and  the 
Ditton  road  at  Southborough,  in  '  The  Coming  of 
Summer  ';  the  Hogsmill  by  Tol worth  Court  in  '  A  Brook  ' 
and  '  A  London  Trout.'  His  '  Nightingale  Road '  is 
perhaps  the  lane  from  Old  Maiden  Church  to  the  Kingston 
road.  His  '  Bam  '  was  perhaps  on  the  road  from  Hook 
to  Leatherhead,  up  Telegraph  Hill.  He  visited  Kew,  and 
found  there  the  real  silence  :  '  Thus  reclining,  the  storm 
and  stress  of  life  dissolve  ;  there  is  no  thought,  no  care, 
no  desire  ;  somewhat  of  the  Nirvana  of  the  earth  be- 
neath— the  earth  which  for  ever  produces  and  receives 
back  again,  and  yet  is  for  ever  at  rest — enters  into  and 
soothes  the  heart.'  He  rowed  on  the  Thames  at  Tedding- 
ton  and  Molesey,  and  showed  himself  a  good  citizen  by 
his  protest  against  the  destruction  of  the  fauna  and 
flora  of  the  river  and  its  banks.  London,  he  thought, 
'  should  look  upon  the  inhabitants  of  the  river  as  pecu- 
liarly her  own.  ...  I  marvel  that  they  permit  the  least 
of  birds  to  be  shot  upon  its  banks.'  But  having  known 
the  Wiltshire  fields  and  been  friendly  with  the  nearest 
keeper  and  the  farmers,  he  would  have  nothing  to  say 
to  preservation  '  by  beadle.' 

Nevertheless,  '  the  inevitable  end  of  every  footpath 
round  about  London  is  London.'  He  describes  how  he 
saw  the  London  atmosphere  come  drifting  one  July  day — 
*  a  bluish-yellow  mist,   the  edge  of  which  was  dearly 


IN  LONDON  AND  THE  SUBURBS  115 

defined,  and  which  blotted  out  distant  objects  and  blurred 
those  nearer  at  hand.'  The  influence  of  London  was 
everywhere.  The  elms  were  frequently  spoiled  by  being 
used  as  posts  for  wire-fencing  ;  sewers  carried  away  the 
water  from  some  roots,  and  gas  leaking  from  the  pipes 
could  do  no  good.  And  he  saw  foreign  shrubs  and  trees, 
the  emblems  of  sudden  riches,  rhododendron  and  plane 
especially,  taking  possession  of  gardens  where  he  longed 
to  see  oaks  and  filbert-walks.  He  missed  the  Downs  : 
*  Hills  that  purify  those  who  walk  on  them  there  were 
not.  Still,  I  thought  my  old  thoughts.'  He  could  not 
love  the  suburb  gardens,  being  countryman  thoroughbred, 
for  their  artful  niceness  and  luxuriance,  their  highest 
achievements  in  choicely  urbane  combination  of  smoothest 
lawn  and  ordered  beds  and  borders,  sumptuous  domes- 
ticities, and  those  abrupt  boundaries  which  are  not  found 
in  the  country  itself.  Still  less,  probably,  could  he  see 
the  charm  of  the  older  suburban  houses  and  gardens, 
yielding  nothing  to  the  tide  that  has  surrounded  them  on 
every  side,  until  one  day  their  cedars  fall  and  the  air  is 
fuU  of  the  mortar  and  plaster  flying  from  ceiling  and  wall, 
and  settling  on  the  grass  and  prostrate  ivy.  The  dignity 
and  sweetness  of  these  houses,  entrenched  behind  ha-has, 
posts  and  chains,  and  good  split  oak  fences,  with  crocuses 
thick  under  their  elms — their  discreet  withdrawn  windows 
magical  among  the  trees  which  they  illumine  at  night 
— in  the  midst  of  the  jerry-built  haste  and  huddle  of 
glittering  shops  and  streets,  with  a  thousand  senseless  eyes 
that  know  not  what  they  mean,  might  move  him  by  their 
final  pathos,  but  not  much  by  their  beauty ;  at  least, 
he  has  not  revealed  it. 

But  with  London  itself  it  was  different.  London  is 
one  of  the  immense  things  of  the  world,  like  the  Alps, 
the  Sahara,  the  Western  Sea  ;  and  it  has  a  complexity, 
a  wavering  changefulness  along  with  its  mere  size, 
which  no  poets  or  artists  have  defined  as  they  have  in 
a  sense  defined  those  other  things.  Huge,  labyrinthine, 
dense,  yet  airy  and  plastic  to  the  roving  spirit,  it  troubles 

8-2 


ii6      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

the  midnight  stars,  and  conspires  with  the  winds  and  the 
setting  sun  to  colour  and  mould  the  clouds.     It  is  an 
epitome  of  the  world,  of  '  other  people,'  and  plunging 
into    it   the    mind   ranges  through  the  humiliations  or 
oblivions   of  insignificance   to   all   the  consolations  and 
even  triumphs  of  preserving  its  own  integrity  there,  and 
perhaps  even — for  some  moments — the  bliss  of  gliding 
as  a  wave  in  the  world-mind  that  towers  and  roars  and 
foams    here    with    beauty    and    shipwreck    and    curious 
flotsam  on  the  tide.     In  little  towns  and  villages  there 
is  often  no  real  incongruity  with  the  fields  in  which  they 
lie,  with  their  handful  of  lights  at  night.     In  large  towns 
there  is  a  real  interruption.     The  spirits  of  grass  and 
tree  and  pool  have  been  driven  underground  ;  ponderous 
headstones  of  factory  and  warehouse  keep  them  twisted 
and  helpless  in  their  graves.     But  London,   except  in 
paltry  ways  to  lungs  and  feet,  ends  by  overcoming  any 
such  fanciful  sense  of  its  incongruity  with  Nature.     And 
that,  too,  not  because  of  the  excellent  skies  over  it,  the 
river,  the  wind  in  the  smoke,  the  rain  on  the  face  ;  nor 
because  of  the  fine  grass  that  will  grow  through  the  grilles 
in  the  pavement  round  the  trees  by  the  National  Portrait 
Gallery  and  the  Gaiety  Theatre,  or  the  dock  and  ground- 
sel and  grass  and  rose-bay  that  greedily  adorn — as  with 
the  hand  that  beflowered  Nero's  grave — the  crude  earth 
and  bricks  of  demolished  buildings  ;  but  simply  on  account 
of  its  ancientness,  its  bulk,  its  humanity,  and,  arising  out 
of  these,  its  inevitableness  as  part  of  what  the  sun  shines 
on.     Of  Aymer  Malet  in  his  novel  of  '  World's  End  ' 
Jefferies  wrote  :   '  Like   all   men   with   any   pretence  to 
brains,   though  he  delighted  in   Nature  and  loved  the 
country,   there  was  a  strong,   almost  irresistible  desire 
within  him  to  mingle  in  the  vast  crowds  of  cities,  to  feel 
that  indefinable  "  life  "  which  animates  the  mass.'     He 
said  himself  :  '  I  am  very  fond  of  what  I  may  call  a  thick- 
ness of  the  people  such  as  exists  in  London  ';  '  I  dream  in 
London  quite  as  much  as  in  the  woodlands  ';  '  I  like  the 
solitude  of  the  hills  and  the  hum  of  the  most  crowded 


IN  LONDON  AND  THE  SUBURBS  117 

city  ;  I  dislike  little  towns  and  villages.'  In  a  crowd 
there  is,  too,  welcome  distraction  to  one  who  knows  that 
the  hearts  of  most  hmnan  beings  can  stand  a  longer  siege 
than  Troy ;  that  every  word  is  an  arrow  or  a  stone  of 
defence,  if  not  offence  ;  that  families  are  secret  societies 
against  humanity,  especially  to  one  who,  like  Jefferies,, 
asks  :  '  Has  anyone  thought  for  an  instant  upon  the 
extreme  difficulty  of  knowing  a  person  ?'  In  one  of  his 
essays  in  '  Nature  near  London  '  he  shows  that  London 
fascinated  him  by  itself  as  well  as  by  its  power  of  such 
consolation.  '  It  is  the  presence  of  man  in  his  myriads,' 
he  wrote  ;  '  it  is  a  curious  thing  that  your  next-door 
neighbour  may  be  a  stranger,  but  there  are  no  strangers 
in  a  vast  crowd.  They  all  seem  to  have  some  relation- 
ship, or  rather,  perhaps,  they  do  not  rouse  the  sense  of 
reserve  which  a  single  unknown  person  might.'  He  con- 
tinues :  '  Still,  the  impulse  is  not  to  be  analyzed  ;  these 
are  mere  notes  acknowledging  its  power.'  The  neighbour- 
hood of  the  city  induced  '  a  mental,  a  nerve-restlessness  ' 
out  in  the  Surrey  fields  ;  '  the  hills  and  vales,  and  meads 
and  woods,  are  like  the  ocean  upon  which  Sinbad  sailed  ; 
but  coming  too  near  the  loadstone  of  London,  the  ship 
wends  thither,  whether  or  no — at  least,  it  is  so  with 
me  ;  and  I  often  go  to  London  without  any  object  what- 
ever, but  just  because  I  must,  and,  arriving  there,  wander 
whithersoever  the  hurrying  throng  carries  me.'  He  tells  us 
of  seeing  Jupiter  and  the  stars  as  he  came  down  the  Hay- 
market  or  from  the  Strand.  He  watched  the  differences 
of  definition  in  the  changing  atmosphere  with  delight  ; 
the  exquisite  London  fleetingness  of  impressions  fortified 
his  keen  interest  in  the  weather.  He  knew  the  sunsets 
from  Westminster  Bridge,  *  big  with  presage,  gloom, 
tragedy,'  and  the  light  of  winter  and  spring  sunsets 
shining  on  the  unconscious  westward  faces  in  Piccadilly. 
Once  he  watched  the  sunrise  from  London  Bridge,  and 
never  forgot  it.  He  dreamed  in  Trafalgar  Square  and 
by  the  portico  of  the  British  Museum.  To  live  fixed  in 
London  was  impossible  to  him  ;   yet  of  London,  simply 


ii8      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

as  a  gaudy,  opulent  place,  he  was  no  mean  admirer. 
'  Let  the  grandees  go  to  the  opera,'  he  wrote  in  '  Amaryllis 
at  the  Fair  '  :  '  for  me  the  streets.'  When  he  thought  of 
the  shops  he  was  a  hearty  countryman  in  his  enthusiasm. 
'  How  delicious  now  to  walk  down  Regent  Street,  along 
Piccadilly,  up  Bond  Street,  and  so  on,  in  a  widening 
circle,  with  a  thousand  pounds  in  one's  pocket,  just  to 
spend,  all  your  own,  and  no  need  to  worry.  ...  To  take 
a  lady — the  lady — to  St.  Peter  Robinson's,  and  spread 
the  silks  of  the  earth  before  her  feet,  and  see  the  awaken- 
ing delight  in  her  eyes  and  the  glow  on  her  cheek  ;  to  buy 
a  pony  for  the  "  kids,"  and  a  diamond  brooch  for  the 
kind,  middle-aged  matron  who  befriended  you  years 
since  in  time  of  financial  need  ;  to  get  a  new  gun  and  in- 
quire about  the  price  of  a  deer-stalk  in  Scotland  ;  whetting 
the  road  now  and  then  with  a  sip  of  Moet — but  onl}'  one 
sip,  for  j^our  liver's  sake — just  to  brighten  up  the  imagi- 
nation ;  and  so  onwards  in  a  widening  circle,  as  sunlit 
fancy  led.  Could  Xerxes,  could  great  Pompey,  could 
Caesar  with  all  his  legions,  could  Lucullus  with  all  his 
oysters,  ever  have  enjo3^ed  such  pleasure  as  this — just 
to  spend  money  freely,  with  a  jolly  chuckle,  in  the  streets 
of  London  ?  .  .  .  No  joy  like  waste  in  London  streets — 
happy  waste,  imaginative  extravagance  ;  to  and  fro  like 
a  butterfly  !'  London  has  the  exuberance  and  careless- 
ness of  Nature  herself.  And  which  of  the  great  Londoners 
has  excelled  Jefferies,  when  he  wrote  of  the  life  of  his 
uncle,  Frederick  Gyde,  the  Alere  Flammaof '  Amaryllis,' 
'  artist,  engraver,  bookbinder,  connoisseur,  traveller, 
printer.  Republican,  conspirator,  sot,  smoker,  dreamer, 
poet,  kind-hearted,  good-natured,  prodigal,  shiftless,  man 
of  Fleet  Street,  carpet-bag  man,  gentleman  shaken  to 
pieces.'  There  is  a  wonderful  feverish  glow — a  romantic 
glow,  even — together  with  a  sad  penetration,  when  he 
writes  of  Fleet  Street  :  '  Let  the  meads  be  never  so  sweet, 
the  mountain-top  never  so  exalted,  still  to  Fleet  Street 
the  mind  will  return.'  He  is,  in  fact,  one  of  the  great 
Londoners.    What  he  disliked  in  London  was  the  noise 


IN  LONDON  AND  THE  SUBURBS  119 

and  the  grit.  '  The  noise  wearying  the  mind  to  a  state 
of  drowsy  narcotism,  you  become  chloroformed  through 
the  sense  of  hearing,  a  condition  of  dreary  resignation 
and  uncomfortable  ease  ';  and  when  he  had  had  too  much 
of  it,  he  saw  the  faces  of  the  crowd  '  not  quite  human  in 
their  eager  and  intensely  concentrated  haste  '  on  a  wet 
night.  The  '  gritty  dust,  too,  it  settles  in  the  nostrils 
and  on  the  lips,'  was  especially  horrible  to  him,  and  he 
has  reflected  this  horror  in  '  Amaryllis  '  and  in  '  The 
Dewy  Morn,'  where  the  grit  on  the  papers  and  in  the  ink 
has  almost  a  ghostly  effect. 

Some  years  later  Jefferies  lived  for  a  short  time  at 
Eltham  (14,  Victoria  Road),  and  used  to  enter  town  by 
the  London,  Chatham  and  Dover  railway-station  at 
London  Bridge.  The  red-tiled  Bermondsey  roofs  pleased 
him  as  he  saw  them  from  the  train.  He  liked  to  see  the 
vastness  at  once,  which  was  impossible  by  the  road. 
'  Nowhere  else  is  there  an  entrance  to  a  city  like  this.' 
From  Bermondsey  he  saw  the  masts  of  ships.  *  Masts 
are  always  dreamy  to  look  at,'  he  wrote  ;  '  they  speak  a 
romance  of  the  sea,  of  unknown  lands,  of  distant  forests 
aglow  with  tropical  colours  and  abounding  with  strange 
forms  of  life.  In  the  hearts  of  most  of  us  there  is  always  a 
desire  for  something  beyond  experience.  Hardly  any  of  us 
but  have  thought,  "  Some  day  I  will  go  on  a  long  voyage." 
But  the  years  go  by,  and  still  we  have  not  sailed.'  At 
the  same  time  as  Stevenson,  and  without  mere  fancy,  he 
discovered  the  romantic  in  London.  He  loved  the  docks, 
and  his  great  red  bowsprit  of  an  Australian  clipper  is 
an  enduring  London  vision.  '  If,'  he  asked — '  if  Italian 
painters  had  had  such  things  as  these  to  paint,  if  poets 
of  old  time  had  had  such  things  as  these  to  sing,  do  you 
imagine  they  would  have  been  contented  with  crank 
caravels  and  tales  twice  told  already  ?  They  had  eyes 
to  see  that  which  was  around  them.  Open  your  eyes  and 
see  those  things  which  are  around  us  at  this  hour.'  Nor 
was  this  a  skin-deep  idea.  Sun  and  river  and  wind 
overcame  the  grit.     The  colour  of  the  Horse  Guards  and 


120      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

of  women's  dresses  fed  his  avaricious  eye.  The  pictures 
in  the  National  Gallery,  the  statues  in  the  Museum,  were 
as  real  to  him  as  hills  and  stars.  Staying  in  a  recess  of 
London  Bridge  in  the  summer  morning  sun,  he  enjoyed 
the  coloured  ships  and  shadowed  wharves  and  clear  air  ; 
or,  leaning  on  the  parapet,  felt  the  sun,  as  when  he  rested 
in  the  fosse  of  Liddington  Castle  on  his  own  Wiltshire 
Downs.  '  Nature,'  he  said,  '  was  deepened  by  the  crowds 
and  foot-worn  stones.'  It  was  Trafalgar  Square  that, 
on  a  summer  day,  forced  him  to  ask,  as  he  '  dreamed 
under  the  beautiful  breast  of  heaven — heaven  brooding 
and  descending  in  pure  light  upon  man's  handiwork  : 
If  the  light  shall  thus  come  in,  and  of  its  mere  loveliness 
overcome  every  aspect  of  dreariness,  why  shall  not  the 
light  of  thought  and  hope — the  light  of  the  soul — over- 
come and  sweep  away  the  dust  of  our  lives  ?'  On 
London  Bridge  and  by  the  Royal  Exchange  he  '  felt  the 
presence  of  the  immense  powers  of  the  universe  ' — felt 
himself  '  in  the  midst  of  eternity,  in  the  midst  of  the 
supernatural,  among  the  immortal.'  So  great  was  his 
admiration  that  he  called  London  Bridge  '  the  only  real 
place  in  the  world.'  The  cities,  he  continues,  '  run 
towards  London,  as  young  partridges  run  to  their  mother. 
The  cities  know  that  they  are  not  real.  They  are  only 
houses  and  wharves  and  bricks  and  stucco — only  out- 
side. The  minds  of  all  men  in  them — merchants,  artists, 
thinkers — are  bent  on  London.  ...  A  house  is  not  a 
dwelling  if  a  man's  heart  be  elsewhere.  Now,  the  heart 
of  the  world  is  in  London,  and  the  cities  with  the  simula- 
crum of  man  in  them  are  empty.  They  are  moving  images 
only  ;  stand  here,  and  you  are  real.'  It  is  not  the  least 
of  the  city's  praises  that  it  was  part  of  the  culture  which 
made  Richard  Jeffcries'  mature  work  memorable. 

Of  his  life  at  this  period  we  have  little  evidence  except 
what  is  to  be  found  in  his  books.  As  he  wrote  for  many 
newspapers  and  magazines,  and  changed  his  publisher 
several  times,  he  was  pretty  often  in  London,  and  must 
have  had  his  hours  of  disgust ;  but  that  '  the  town  was 


IN  LONDON  AND  THE  SUBURBS  121 

odious  to  him,  the  streets  an  abomination,'  is  an  un- 
recognizable statement  of  the  facts.  Only  '  After 
London  '  supports  this  view ;  there  he  makes  London 
survive  only  as  the  cause  of  a  miasma  and  a  stench.  As 
a  rule,  he  accepts  it  as  inevitable,  and  enjoys  it  pro- 
foundly. 

Having  no  literary  friends,  he  was  seldom  the  subject 
or  victim  of  reminiscences.  Of  human  society  he  asked 
for  little  but  what  was  homely,  and  he  got  no  more. 
Strangers  found  him  the  loneliest  of  men  in  appearance, 
and  quite  impossible  to  converse  with.  That  he  liked 
this  standing  aloof  '  in  villa-seclusion,  close  by  and  yet 
divided  for  a  life-time,'  is  unlikely,  though  it  gave  him 
greater  freedom  for  his  solitary  daily  walks — an  hour 
and  a  half  between  the  end  of  his  morning's  work  and  his 
one  o'clock  dinner,  and  the  same  following  on  his  after- 
dinner  sleep  of  an  hour.  His  habits  were  regular.  Break- 
fast was  at  eight,  often  '  nothing  but  dry  toast  and  tea  '; 
then  work.  After  tea  he  worked  again  until  half-past 
eight,  when  he  had  alight  supper,  '  with  a  glass  of  claret,' 
and  then  read  or  talked  until  bedtime,  at  eleven.  He 
smoked  '  very  rarely,'  which  probably  means  that  his 
smoking  was  not  a  habit.  He  demanded  silence  in  the 
house.  He  was  not  a  talker,  but  talked  with  ease  and 
vigour  on  his  own  subjects,  most  eagerly  on  the  Labour 
Question.  His  speech  had  retained  none  of  the  Wilt- 
shire accent.  He  is  said  to  have  been  slightly  but  dis- 
tinctly marked  as  of  yeoman  birth  by  acknowledging, 
without  any  loss  to  his  independence,  merely  social 
superiority,  though  when  younger  he  was  regarded  as 
having  '  no  proper  '  {i.e.,  no  low)  sense  of  his  own  position, 
and  could  not  fawn  or  flatter  or  coax.  One  of  his  ac- 
quaintances thought  his  avoiding  of  company  so  decided 
as  to  be  a  conscious  device  to  preserve  '  his  native  sensi- 
bilities.' He  was  certainly  not  to  be  taken  captive  by 
any  of  the  usual  attractions  of  a  town  life  ;  solitude,  the 
spectacle  of  humanity,  and  home-life  were  his  deepest 
joys.     '  A  shy,  proud  recluse,'  one  calls  him.     In  appear- 


122      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

ance  he  was  '  long,  languid,  and  loitering,'  whether  he 
sat  or  moved  across  a  room  ;  *  a  long  man  from  head  to 
foot ;  his  legs  long,  his  arms  long  ,  .  .  somewhat  droop- 
ing eyelids,  softly  drooping  mouth ';  his  expression 
sensuous,  tender,  '  silent  and  aware.'  In  dress,  when  he 
came  to  town,  he  was  '  trim  and  town-like,'  but  never 
noticeable  except  for  the  lack  of  umbrella  and  overcoat. 
The  result  of  his  visits  was  that  he  '  began  to  make 
money  as  a  writer  on  country  matters,'  which  is  a  way  of 
saying  that  he  was  able  to  pay  his  bills  and  to  save  less 
than  enough  to  keep  himself  and  his  wife  and  two  children 
when  iUness  forbade  him  even  to  dictate. 


CHAPTER  IX 

FIRST  COUNTRY  BOOKS  —  '  THE  GAMEKEEPER  AT 
HOME'— 'WILD  LIFE  IN  A  SOUTHERN  COUNTY'— 
'THE  AMATEUR  POACHER '  —  ' ROUND  ABOUT  A 
GREAT  ESTATE' 

The  two  or  three  country  essays  of  1875  and  1876  would 
have  been  forgotten  as  certainly  as  '  The  Scarlet  Shawl  ' 
had  they  not  been  followed  soon  after  his  removal  to 
Surbiton  by  many  more  in  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  some  of 
v/hich  were  reprinted  as  '  The  Gamekeeper  at  Home '  in 
1878.  The  rest,  poorer  as  a  rule  than  the  reprinted 
papers,  are  easily  to  be  found,  though  all  unsigned.  As 
early  as  December,  1876,  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Oswald  Craw- 
furd,  editor  of  the  New  Quarterly,  Jefferies  had  begun 
to  think  about  this  book  and  its  successors.  His  first 
thought  was  to  make  the  Reservoir  at  Coate  definitely 
the  centre  of  the  book.  '  If,'  he  writes,  '  the  birds  which 
I  and  others  have  shot  there  had  been  preserved — as  I 
now  wish  they  had  been — they  would  form  a  little 
museum.  My  brother  shot  a  brace  of  grebes  [crested 
grebes]  there  last  week.'  In  this  letter  he  expands  more 
than  he  usually  does.  '  I  used,'  he  continues,  '  to  take 
a  gun  for  nominal  occupation,  and  sit  in  the  hedge  for 
hours,  noting  the  ways  and  habits  even  of  moles  and 
snails.  I  had  my  especial  wasps'  nest,  and  never  was 
stung.  The  secret  with  all  living  creatures  is — quiet.  .  .  . 
The  great  Downs  .  .  .  are  literally  teeming  with  matter 
for  thought.  I  own  that  the  result  has  been  a  profound 
optimism — if  one  looks  at  Nature  metaphysically.    Since 

123 


124      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

that  pleasant  time,  which  I  still  regret,  I  have  corrected 
my  notes,  and  endeavoured  to  organize  them  by  reading 
the  best  books,  I  could  find  on  such  subjects,  including 
geology.'  At  first  he  was  to  have  written  the  articles 
for  Mr.  Crawfurd,  and  he  goes  on  to  suggest  what  he  has  in 
mind.  '  I  should  not,'  he  writes,  '  attempt  a  laborious, 
learned  description,  but  rather  choose  a  chatty  style. 
I  would  endeavour  to  bring  in  some  of  the  glamour — 
the  magic  of  sunshine,  and  green  things,  and  calm  waters 
■ — if  I  could.'  That  is  what  he  did  for  the  Pall  Mall 
Now  at  length  he  has  aimed  at  something  new  and  within 
his  reach.  He  has  begun  to  pour  out  great  and  small, 
good  and  indifferent,  from  his  memory  and  his  note- 
books, the  treasures  of  country-lore.  He  takes  the 
Burderop  Woods  and  adjacent  fields  and  ponds,  the  keeper 
Haylock  and  his  predecessor  Rawlings,  and  their  cottage 
in  Hodson  Bottom,  and,  using  them  freely  and  minutely, 
makes  his  first  book  out  of  them.  He  knows  it  all 
perfectly  well,  and  talks  about  it  with  a  rich,  quiet  ease. 
He  gives  information  about  an  hundred  things — about  the 
keeper  and  his  ways,  his  dogs,  his  guns  and  implements, 
his  surroundings,  the  cottages,  the  trees,  the  wild  animals, 
the  birds,  the  fish — and  he  gives  enough  to  have  led  a 
publisher  to  write  and  ask  him  for  a  history  of  shooting, 
of  which  he  was  thinking  years  later,  but  wrote  only  a 
chapter.  '  The  Gamekeeper  '  is  almost  as  informing  as 
*  Toilers  of  the  Field,'  yet  were  it  shorn  of  everything 
else  it  would  not  be  half  the  book  it  is.  For  he  gives  his 
information,  and  with  it  the  spirit  of  his  enjoyment  of 
those  things.  And  a  very  simple  enjoyment  it  is,  for  it 
belongs  to  his  youth  and  to  only  the  simplest  part  of  it. 
He  is  the  farmer's  son  who  has  knocked  about  with  a 
gun  and  seen  the  keepers  and  underkeepers  a  little  more 
than  usual,  with  a  curiosity  and  memory  far  above  the 
common.  His  absolute  familiarity  with  country  life  is 
an  essential,  but  it  is  the  joy  of  that  life  which  makes 
his  book  a  memorable  one.  Even  the  countryman 
recognizes  that,  while  to  the  townsman  it  is  the  sun  and 


FIRST  COUNTRY  BOOKS  125 

wind  and  rain  and  open  country  that  count,  long  after 
the  facts  are  forgotten.  Things  occur  in  his  pages  as 
they  do  on  walks,  haphazard  and  often  unconnected. 
Descriptions,  portraits,  narratives,  arguments,  odds  and 
ends  of  superstitions,  customs,  curiosities,  come  together 
in  Nature's  own  abundance.  The  writing  is  effortless, 
and  in  places  slipshod  ;  it  hardly  matters  :  the  breath  of 
elaboration  might  have  made  it  less  rustic.  As  it  stands 
it  is  perhaps  the  first  thoroughly  rustic  book  in  English, 
by  a  countryman  and  about  the  country,  with  no  alien 
savours  whatever.  Even  White's  utmost  simplicity  is 
that  of  a  scholar,  and  smells  of  Oriel  as  much  as  of  Sel- 
borne.  But  it  is  significant  that  almost  the  subtlest  part 
of  'The  Gamekeeper,'  the  essence  and  gospel,  is  put  with 
hardly  a  shade  of  incongruity  into  the  keeper's  mouth  : 

'  It's  indoors,  sir,  as  kills  half  the  people  ;  being  indoors 
three  parts  of  the  day,  and  next  to  that  taking  too  much 
drink  and  vittals.  Eating's  as  bad  as  drinking  ;  and 
there  ain't  nothing  like  fresh  air  and  the  smell  of  the 
woods.  You  should  come  out  here  in  the  spring,  when 
the  oak  timber  is  throwed  (because,  you  see,  the  sap 
be  rising,  and  the  bark  strips  then),  and  just  sit  down 
on  a  stick  fresh  peeled — I  means  a  trunk,  you  know — 
and  sniff  up  the  scent  of  that  there  oak-bark.  It  goes 
right  down  your  throat,  and  preserves  your  lungs  as  the 
tan  do  leather.  And  I've  heard  say  as  folk  who  work 
in  the  tan-yards  never  have  no  illness.  There's  always  a 
smell  from  the  trees,  dead  or  living.  I  could  tell  what 
wood  a  log  was  in  the  dark  by  my  nose  ;  and  the  air  is 
better  where  the  woods  be.  The  ladies  up  in  the  great 
house  sometimes  goes  out  into  the  fir  plantations — the 
turpentine  scents  strong,  you  see — and  they  say  it's  good 
for  the  chest ;  but,  bless  you,  you  must  live  in  it.  People 
go  abroad,  I'm  told,  to  live  in  the  pine  forests  to  cure  'em  : 
I  say  these  here  oaks  have  got  every  bit  as  much  good  in 
that  way.  I  never  eat  but  two  meals  a  day — breakfast 
and  supper  ;  what  you  would  call  dinner — and  maybe  in 
the  middle  of  the  day  a  hunch  of  dry  bread  and  an  apple. 


126      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

I  take  a  deal  for  breakfast,  and  I'm  rather  lear  [hungry] 
at  supper  ;  but  you  may  lay  your  oath  that's  why  I'm 
what  I  am  in  the  way  of  health.  People  stuffs  theirselves, 
and  by  consequence  it  breaks  out,  you  see.  It's  the  same 
with  cattle  ;  they're  overfed,  tied  up  in  stalls,  stuffed,  and 
never  no  exercise,  and  mostly  oily  food,  too.  It  stands 
to  reason  they  must  get  bad ;  and  that's  the  real 
cause  of  these  here  rinderpests,  and  pleuro-pneumonia, 
and  what  -  nots.  At  least,  that's  my  notion.  I'm 
in  the  woods  all  day  and  never  comes  home  till 
supper — 'cept,  of  course,  in  breeding  time,  to  fetch  the 
meal  and  stuff  for  the  birds — so  I  gets  the  fresh  air,  you 
see  ;  and  the  fresh  air  is  the  life,  sir.  There's  the  smell 
of  the  earth,  too — 'specially  just  as  the  plough  turns  it 
up — which  is  a  fine  thing  ;  and  the  hedges  and  the  grass 
are  as  sweet  as  sugar  after  a  shower.  Anything  with  a 
green  leaf  is  the  thing,  depend  upon  it,  if  you  want  to 
live  healthy.  I  never  signed  no  pledge  ;  and  if  a  man 
asks  me  to  take  a  glass  of  ale,  I  never  says  him  no. 
But  I  ain't  got  no  barrel  at  home  ;  and  all  the  time  I've 
been  in  this  here  place  I've  never  been  to  a  public. 
Gentlemen  give  me  tips — of  course  they  does  ;  and  much 
obliged  I  be  ;  but  I  takes  it  to  my  missus.  Many's  the 
time  they've  asked  me  to  have  a  glass  of  champagne 
or  brandy  when  we've  had  lunch  under  the  hedge  ;  but 
I  says  no,  and  would  like  a  glass  of  beer  best,  which  I 
gets,  of  course.  No  ;  when  I  drink,  I  drinks  ale  :  but 
most  in  general  I  drinks  no  strong  liquor.  Great  coat  ! — 
cold  weather  !  I  never  put  no  great  coat  on  this  thirty 
year.  These  here  woods  be  as  good  as  a  topcoat  in  cold 
weather.  Come  off  the  open  fields  with  the  east  wind 
cutting  into  you,  and  get  inside  they  firs  and  you'll  feel 
warm  in  a  minute.  If  you  goes  into  the  ash-wood  you 
must  go  in  farther,  because  the  wind  comes  more  between 
the  poles.'* 

Fresh  air,  good  ale,  and  juicy  beef-steaks  were  the  only 
medicines  which  Jefferies  never  ceased  to  praise. 
*  The  Gamekeeper  at  J/ome. 


FIRST  COUNTRY  BOOKS  127 

Next  to  this  passage  one  of  the  most  significant  things 
in  the  book  is  the  claim  of  reason  for  animals,  and  that 
also  is  made  first  by  the  keeper.  If  that  interesting 
chapter  is  ever  written  on  the  influence  of  the  unlearned 
— the  Thurtells  and  the  rest — on  literature,  through 
their  friendships  with  writing  men,  Haylock  of  Burderop 
must  not  be  omitted.  Altogether  the  book  may  be  said 
to  be  the  first  revelation  of  matters  which  hundreds  of 
countrymen  have  known  for  centuries.  In  Jefferies  all 
the  keepers,  and  poachers,  and  bird-scarers,  and  farmers 
become  articulate — as,  for  example,  when  he  records 
that  '  the  rabbit-burrow  here  at  my  elbow  is  not  silent ; 
it  seems  to  catch  and  heighten  faint  noises  from  a  dis- 
tance. ...  So  that  in  all  probability  to  the  rabbit  his 
hole  must  be  a  perfect  "  Ear  of  Dionysius,"  magnifying 
a  whisper.'  But  to  return  to  his  youth  meant  a  return 
also  to  the  ideas  of  his  youth  and  of  his  environment. 
He  is  the  farmer's  son  and  gamekeeper's  friend,  not  only 
in  his  heartiness  and  woodcraft,  but  in  his  callousness 
and  his  careless  acceptance  of  things  as  they  are.  For 
the  time  being  his  attitude  towards  life  is  that  of  the 
gamekeeper.  With  characteristic  docility,  having  to 
write  about  the  gamekeeper,  he  becomes  one  ;  and  in 
his  crude  abuse  of  poachers  and  veneration  of  the  hunt 
and  the  great  house,  in  his  genuine  satisfaction  at  the 
fact  that  in  rabbiting  '  the  young  gentlemen  tip  freely,' 
and  that  the  keeper  '  is  one  of  those  fortunate  individuals 
whom  all  the  world  tips,'  he  even  overdoes  his  part. 
Simply  because  a  labourer  now  and  then  kills  a  hare  in 
his  allotment,  he  must  sneer  at  the  '  kindly  talk  uttered 
over  allotments  ';  and  the  keeper  is  so  deified  that  he 
and  his  ground-ash  stick  appear  to  be  equal  to  all  the 
ingenious  and  robust  mechanics  of  Swindon  town.  Yet 
a  keeper,  it  seems,  may  be  contaminated  '  without 
volition  of  his  own  '  by  contact  with  the  bad  men  who 
have  not  the  luck  to  be  keepers  !  If  it  were  not  for  the 
poacher's  own  wit  and  knowledge  that  come  out  in  half  of 
the  best  passages,  the  reader  might  be  excused  for  disgust 


128      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

with  such  a  policeman  god  as  the  book  invokes.  In  the 
whole  there  is  no  trace  of  the  loftier  ideas  which  had  been 
expressed,  however  uncertainly,  in  the  luckless  novels. 
Yet  these  are  little  matters,  only  to  be  mentioned  in 
order  that  his  later  progress  may  be  made  clear  ;  for 
here  is  good  cheer,  the  smell  of  the  morning,  and  the 
freedom  of  a  sweet  land. 

'  Wild  Life  in  a  Southern  County,'  also  consisting  of 
papers  from  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  was  published  as  a 
book  in  1879.  Here  also  he  returns  to  Coate,  Burderop, 
and  the  Reservoir,  but  ranges  farther  afield  to  Marl- 
borough Forest,  Draycot,  Broad  Hinton,  Bishopston, 
Aldbourne,  covering  much  of  the  same  ground  as  in  his 
early  North  Wilts  Herald  articles,  and  using,  too,  part  of 
his  contributions  to  the  Graphic  ;  while  in  the  sixteenth 
chapter  he  begins  to  include  his  observations  from  the 
neighbourhood  of  Surbiton.  Its  twenty  chapters  con- 
form roughly  to  the  rough  scheme  of  beginning  at  the 
Downs,  on  Liddington  Castle,  and  descending  with  a 
stream  to  the  lower  land,  to  Coate  Farm  and  the  fields 
and  woods  around.  But  the  arrangement  is  even  less 
rigid  than  in  '  The  Gamekeeper';  the  digressions  are  more 
haphazard,  the  writing  more  careless.  The  writing  of 
newspaper  articles  of  a  certain  length  helps  to  develop 
a  habit  of  filling  a  proposed  number  of  pages  rather  than 
of  achieving  a  firm  and  logical  form  demanded  by  the 
substance.  The  length  of  an  article  demanded  by  an 
editor  has  no  necessary  connection  with  the  subject  of 
it.  In  prose  such  lengths  are  as  destructive  to  order  and 
beauty  as  the  fourteen  lines  of  a  sonnet  commonly  are  to 
sense.  Jefferies'  difficulty,  writing  with  no  precedent  to 
warn  or  guide,  was  unusually  great,  and  his  rich,  un- 
trained intelligence  was  an  ordained  victim.  Almost  to 
the  end  of  his  life  he  is  to  be  seen  painfully  struggling 
with,  or  carelessly  giving  way  to,  the  necessity  of  writing 
essays  of  a  standard  length,  introducing  brief  irrelevancies, 
and  seriously  injuring  what  he  really  has  to  say.  But 
'  Wild  Life,'  though  not  without  dulness  and  repetition. 


FIRST  COUNTRY  BOOKS  129 

overcomes  those  disadvantages  by  its  abundance.  Jefferies 
is  now  much  less  a  sportsman  and  more  a  naturahst  and 
ruminating  countryman.  In  its  range  of  knowledge,  as 
of  country,  it  is  beyond  '  The  Gamekeeper.'  Coate  Farm 
and  fields,  the  Downs,  the  camp  and  its  prehistoric  de- 
fenders, the  springs  and  streams,  sport,  agriculture,  the 
ways  of  birds,  beasts,  fish,  insects,  and  reptiles,  the 
atmosphere,  village  life,  village  architecture  and  in- 
dustries, superstitions  and  religion,  are  described  by  one 
who  has  hardly  yet  known  life  without  these  things.  As 
the  work  of  patient  eyesight,  the  many  notes  on  clouds 
and  mists  are  more  than  respectable  ;  those,  again,  for 
example,  like  the  possible  explanations  of  the  rooks'  line 
of  flight  morning  and  evening,  mark  decidedly  the 
irruption  of  an  imaginative  intelligence  into  natural 
history,  which  is  so  often  in  danger  of  falling  into  the 
hands  of  mere  takers  of  notes  ;  others  are  accurate  and 
simply  made,  as  where  he  transcribes  straight  from  his 
Surbiton  notes,  and  they  can  hardly  make  an  appeal 
except  to  the  boy-naturalist  and  the  townsman  pleased  to 
hear  about  everything  rural.  The  human  characters  are 
slighter  than  in  '  The  Gamekeeper,'  but  more  varied  and 
sympathetically  handled.  Not  only  is  the  book  richer 
in  material  than  its  predecessor — so  rich  that  it  must 
have  a  considerable  value  as  a  mere  record  of  a  certain 
time  and  place  in  English  life — but  the  treatment  is 
richer,  more  genial  and  humane.  The  waggon's  history 
in  the  sixth  chapter,  for  example,  is  a  good  thing.  It  has 
a  foundation  of  special  knowledge,  but  not  in  the  narrow 
manner  of  a  specialist  ;  and  upon  this  foundation  there 
is  the  writer's  experience  of  life.  Thus  it  has  the  merit 
of  some  ripe  craftsman's  talk  and  the  permanence  of 
simple  writing.  The  book  is  remarkable,  too,  for  its 
attitude  towards  animals.  Jefferies  finds  that  the  ant 
has  not  infallible  instinct,  but '  faculties  resembling  those 
of  the  mind  ';  he  infers  that  the  rook  knows  that  a  walking- 
stick  is  not  a  gun  ;  and  he  says  :  '  The  longer  I  observe 
the  more  I  am  convinced  that  birds  and  animals  often 


130      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

act  from  causes  quite  distinct  from  those  which  at  first 
sight  appeared  sufficient  to  account  for  their  motions.' 
And  yet  again  : 

'  The  joy  in  hfe  of  these  animals — indeed,  of  almost 
all  animals  and  birds  in  freedom — is  very  great.  You 
may  see  it  in  every  motion  :  in  the  lissom  bound  of  the 
hare,  the  playful  leap  of  the  rabbit,  the  song  that  the 
lark  and  the  finch  must  sing  ;  the  soft,  loving  coo  of  the 
dove  in  the  hawthorn  ;  the  blackbird  ruffling  out  her 
feathers  on  a  rail.  The  sense  of  living — the  consciousness 
of  seeing  and  feeling — is  manifestly  intense  in  them  all, 
and  is  in  itself  an  exquisite  pleasure.  Their  appetites 
seem  ever  fresh  :  they  rush  to  the  banquet  spread  by 
Mother  Earth  with  a  gusto  that  Lucullus  never  knew  in 
the  midst  of  his  artistic  gluttony  ;  they  drink  from  the 
stream  with  dainty  sips  as  though  it  were  richest  wine. 
Watch  the  birds  in  the  spring  ;  the  pairs  dance  from 
bough  to  bough,  and  know  not  how  to  express  their  wQd 
happiness.  The  hare  rejoices  in  the  swiftness  of  his 
limbs  ;  his  nostrils  sniff  the  air,  his  strong  sinews  spurn 
the  earth  ;  like  an  arrow  from  a  bow  he  shoots  up  the 
steep  hill  that  we  must  clamber  slowly,  halting  half- 
way to. breathe.  On  outspread  wings  the  swallow  floats 
above,  then  slants  downwards  with  a  rapid  swoop,  and 
with  the  impetus  of  the  motion  rises  easily.  Therefore  it 
is  that  this  skull  here  '  [of  a  hare],  '  lying  so  light  in  the 
palm  of  the  hand,  with  the  bright  sunshine  falling  on 
it,  and  a  shadowy  darkness  in  the  vacant  orbits  of  the 
eyes,  fills  us  with  sadness.  "  As  leaves  on  leaves,  so 
men  on  men  decay  ";  how  much  more  so  with  these 
creatures  whose  generations  are  so  short  !'* 

The  sense  of  their  happiness  is  born  out  of  his  own — a 
happiness  akin  to  sorrow,  because  it  is  so  exquisite,  and  so 
much  a  part  of  youth.  The  use  of  a  gun  and  its  effects 
have  become  habitual,  and  have  left  him  quite  free  to 
feel  and  reflect  exactly  as  many  men  do  who  would  not 
willingly  take  any  life. 

*   Wil{i  Li'c  in  a  Southcr/i  County. 


FIRST  COUNTRY  BOOKS  131 

As  in  '  Greene  Feme  Farm,'  belonging  to  the  same 
year,  he  is  interested  in  the  country  crafts — in  the  mill- 
wright, the  rope-walker,  the  bell-founder,  the  basket- 
maker  and  mop-maker — and  in  distinguishing  local 
usages  ;  he  regrets  their  decay,  because  of  their  goodness 
as  much  as  of  their  age.  He  makes  another  revelation  of 
his  view  of  art ;  for  he  likes  '  the  poetry  of  life  '  under 
the  harshness  of  an  old  hunting  picture,  the  horses  from 
life,  the  men  portraits,  the  hounds  labelled  with  names  ; 
but  he  has  not  seen  really  truthful  hunting  scenes  on 
canvas  :  the  best  are  conventional,  and  have  too  much 
colour.     He  shows  how  it  might  be  done  : 

*  A  thick  mist  clings  in  the  hollow  there  by  the  osier-bed, 
where  the  pack  have  overtaken  the  fox,  so  that  you  can- 
not see  the  dogs.  Beyond,  the  contour  of  the  hill  is  lost 
in  the  cloud  trailing  over  it ;  the  foreground  towards  us 
shows  a  sloping  ploughed  field,  a  damp  brown,  with  a 
thin  mist  creeping  along  the  cold  furrows.  Yonder, 
three  vague  and  shadowy  figures  are  pushing  laboriously 
forward  beside  the  leafless  hedge  ;  while  the  dirt-be- 
spattered bays  hardly  show  against  its  black  background 
and  through  the  mist.  Some  way  behind,  a  weary  grey 
— the  only  spot  of  colour,  and  that  dimmed — is  gamely 
struggling — it  is  not  leaping — through  a  gap  beside  a 
gaunt  oak-tree,  whose  dark  buff  leaves  yet  linger.  But 
out  of  these  surely  an  artist  who  dared  to  face  Nature  as 
she  is  might  work  a  picture.'* 

All  through  the  book  he  sees  things  like  this,  as  they 
are,  without  a  tinge  of  pastoral  or  other  sentiment ;  and 
it  is  worth  noticing  that  in  the  eleventh  chapter  he 
mentions  his  dreaming  in  summer  or  standing  to  muse 
in  an  early  spring  night,  under  the  great  oak  that  looked 
over  a  great  field  to  the  Downs — perhaps  the  very  oak 
where  he  used  to  go  to  dream  the  dreams  of  '  The  Story 
of  My  Heart  ' — but  he  mentions  it  with  no  dimmest  hint 
as  yet  of  what  those  dreams  are  to  bring  forth,  and  he 
is  silent  as  to  what  he  dreamed  or  mused.     The  import- 

*    Wild  Life  in  a  Southern  County. 

9—2 


132      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

ance  of  those  brief  mystic  moments  may  not  yet  have 
come  home  to  him,  or  he  may  have  felt  that  the  dreams 
had  no  place  in  such  a  book.  He  remembers  his  shooting, 
and  bird-watching,  and  roaming,  and  his  talks  with 
farmers,  and  sextons  ;   and  he  waits. 

'  The  Amateur  Poacher,'  consisting  of  articles  from 
the  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  and  published  in  1879,  is  on  the 
whole,  as  well  as  in  the  best  of  its  parts,  an  advance  from 
'  The  Gamekeeper  '  and  '  Wild  Life.'  Once  more  he  is 
at  Coate  Farmhouse  and  fields,  Burderop,  the  Downs, 
Wootton  Bassett,  and  Marlborough,  and  this  time  as  the 
poacher  or  the  not  too  scrupulous  rambler  with  a  gun. 
He  has  the  advantage  now  of  writing  frankly  in  the  first 
person  about  his  own  doings,  and  acknowledging  several 
ingenious  village  acquaintances.  It  is  full  of  the  life  of 
men  whom  he  knew  as  he  knew  the  fields — chiefly  the 
roguish  and  sporting  side  of  them — but  lively  and  faith- 
ful, every  word  of  it.  Here  first  appears  Molly  the  milk- 
maid— the  merry,  hard-working  maid  at  Coate  Farm, 
who  used  to  say,  when  people  laughed  at  Jefferies  :  '  Ah  ! 
you  med  laugh,  but  if  you  was  inside  Dick's  yed  for  five 
minutes  you  wouldn't  want  to  get  back  into  your  own.' 
He  had  described  his  birthplace  inside  and  out  in  '  Wild 
Life,'  but  in  a  detached  way  ;  he  still  made  it  his  business 
to  inform,  and  he  had  not  yet  ventured  to  suppose  that 
people  would  follow  him  for  his  own  sake.  In  '  The 
Poacher  '  he  has  at  once  by  good  fortune  the  confidence 
to  write  about  Coate  Farm  as  his  own  home.  The 
result  is  that  no  boy,  at  least,  can  read  the  book  and  not 
remember  for  ever  the  stuffed  fox  grinning  up  in  the 
garret ;  the  garret  itself,  its  old  pistols  and  legendary 
skeleton  ;  the  perch-fishing  ;  the  gun. 

'  There  are  days  in  spring  when  the  white  clouds  go 
swiftly  past,  with  occasional  breaks  of  bright  sunshine 
lighting  up  a  spot  in  the  landscape.  That  is  like  the 
memory  of  one's  youth.  There  is  a  long,  dull  blank, 
and  then  a  brilliant  streak  of  recollection.  Doubtless  it 
was  a  year  or  two  afterwards  when,   seeing   that   the 


FIRST  COUNTRY  BOOKS  133 

natural  instinct  could  not  be  suppressed,  but  had  better 
be  recognized,  they  produced  a  real  gun  (single  barrel) 
for  me  from  the  clock-case. 

'  It  stood  on  the  landing  just  at  the  bottom  of  the  dark 
flight  that  led  to  the  garret.  An  oaken  case  six  feet  high 
or  more,  and  a  vast  dial,  with  a  mysterious  picture  of  a 
full  moon  and  a  ship  in  full  sail  that  somehow  indicated 
the  quarters  of  the  year,  if  you  had  been  imitating  Rip 
Van  Winkle,  and  after  a  sleep  of  six  months  wanted  to 
know  whether  it  was  spring  or  autumn.  But  only  to 
think  that,  all  the  while  we  were  puzzling  over  the  moon 
and  the  ship  and  the  queer  signs  on  the  dial,  a  gun  was 
hidden  inside  !  The  case  was  locked,  it  is  true  ;  but 
there  are  ways  of  opening  locks,  and  we  were  always 
handy  with  tools.  This  gun  was  almost,  but  not  quite, 
so  long  as  the  other.  That  dated  from  the  time  between 
Stuart  and  Hanover  ;  this  might  not  have  been  more 
than  seventy  years  old.  And  a  beautiful  piece  of  work- 
manship it  was :  my  new  double  breechloader  is  a  coarse, 
common  thing  to  compare  with  it.  Long  and  slender 
and  light  as  a  feather,  it  came  to  the  shoulder  with 
wonderful  ease.  Then  there  was  a  groove  in  the  barrel 
at  the  breech  and  for  some  inches  up  which  caught  the 
eye  and  guided  the  glance  like  a  trough  to  the  sight  at 
the  muzzle,  and  thence  to  the  bird.  The  stock  was  shod 
with  brass,  and  the  trigger-guard  was  of  brass,  with  a 
kind  of  flange  stretching  half-way  down  to  the  butt  and 
inserted  in  the  wood.  After  a  few  minutes'  polishing  it 
shone  like  gold,  and  to  see  the  sunlight  flash  on  it  was 
a  joy. 

'  You  might  note  the  grain  of  the  barrel,  for  it  had 
not  been  browned  ;  and  it  took  a  good  deal  of  sand  to  get 
the  rust  off.  By  aid  of  a  little  oil  and  careful  wiping 
after  a  shower  it  was  easy  to  keep  it  bright.  Those 
browned  barrels  only  encourage  idleness.  The  lock  was 
a  trifle  dull  at  first,  simply  from  lack  of  use.  A  small 
screw-driver  soon  had  it  to  pieces,  and  it  speedily  clicked 
again    sweet    as   a   flute.     If    the    hammer  came  back 


134      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

rather  far  when  at  full  cock,  that  was  because  the  lock 
had  been  converted  from  a  flint,  and  you  could  not 
expect  it  to  be  absolutely  perfect.  Besides  which,  as 
the  fall  was  longer  the  blow  was  heavier,  and  the  cap 
was  sure  to  explode.'* 

It  is  all  so  easy  and  natural ;  the  boy's  and  man's  heart 
is,  and  has  been  for  twenty  years,  in  these  things  ;  and 
when  such  a  one  is  remembering  and  calling  for  power 
to  write  them  down,  it  will  go  hard  if  he  is  not  answered. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Jefferies  was  answered.  He 
goes  to  an  old  mansion  left  by  the  family  in  the  hands  of 
butler,  and  keeper,  and  maids  ;  his  friend  Dickon  is  in 
love  with  one  of  the  maids,  and  takes  him  there  ;  and 
their  merry  irresponsibility  and  lawless  shooting  in  the 
woods  slip  into  the  simple,  unelaborate  sentences  with 
perfect  truth.  With  still  something  of  '  The  Game- 
keeper '  spirit  he  labels  the  roguish  Oby  as  poacher, 
fighting  man,  '  hardened  against  shame,  an  Ishmaelite 
openly  contemning  authority  and  yet  not  insensible  to 
kindness  ';  but  then  gives  his  history  with  gusto,  though 
without  seeming  to  commit  himself,  by  putting  it  into 
the  old  man's  mouth.  Luke,  the  pitiful  rheumy  rabbit 
contractor,  with  his  doddering  artfulness,  is  another 
character  honestly  set  down.  Huge  Little  John  ferreting, 
intent  as  a  dog,  and  impatient  of  any  method  but  his 
own,  '  wristing  '  the  rabbits'  necks  with  quiet  satisfaction, 
is  equally  good.  The  talk  of  these  men  lacks  the  liveli- 
ness and  humour  of  Edwin  Waugh's  Lancashire  sketches, 
yet  there  is  never  a  false  note.  They  live.  The  great 
heavy-laden  waggon  of  life  goes  rocking  dovNTi  the  lanes, 
and  the  artist  gathers  up  some  of  the  wisps  from  the  elm- 
trees  when  it  has  passed.  The  waggon  and  the  load  dis- 
appear, but  there  are  the  wisps  wagging  in  the  sun  and  rain 
of  late  autumn,  of  winter,  of  spring,  and  of  returning 
summer,  and  to  us  who  cannot  gather  them  so,  blessed  are 
those  who  can,  like  Jefferies.  If  the  crop  be  poor,  it  was 
grown  in  the  earth,  and  has  its  value  for  us  who  descend 
>  *  The  Amateur  Poacher. 


FIRST  COUNTRY  BOOKS  135 

into  it  again.  We  cannot  refuse  the  meanest  portrait,  so 
it  be  true.  For  if  life  has  not  been  truly  drawn,  how 
shall  we  know  whether  it  ought  to  be  uprooted,  or  a  cure 
attempted,  or  haply  imitated  ?  And  however  ugly  and 
troublous  to  delicate  souls,  human  joy  is  not  denied  to 
it,  and  even  miserable  things  a  true-hearted  man  shall 
make  the  bearers  of  joy.  The  finest  thing  in  the  book 
is  probably  the  visit  to  the  Sarsen  public-house,  and 
then  the  coursing  on  the  Downs  with  Dickon,  the  land- 
lady's son,  which  some  might  think  a  trivial  matter  out 
of  low  life.     But  hear  it  : 

'  The  talk  to-day,  as  the  brown  brandy,  which  the 
paler  cognac  has  not  yet  superseded,  is  consumed  and 
the  fumes  of  coarse  tobacco  and  the  smell  of  spilt  beer 
and  the  faint,  sickly  odour  of  evaporating  spirits  over- 
power the  flowers,  is  of  horses.  The  stable-lads  from  the 
training-stables  far  up  on  the  Downs  drop  in  or  call  at 
the  door  without  dismounting.  Once  or  twice  a  day  a 
tout  calls  and  takes  his  "  grub,"  and  scribbles  a  report  in 
the  little  back-parlour.  Sporting  papers,  beer-stained  and 
thumb-rmarked,  lie  on  the  tables ;  framed  portraits  of 
racers  hang  on  the  walls.  Burly  men,  who  certainly 
cannot  ride  a  race,  but  who  have  horse  in  every  feature, 
puff  cigars  and  chat  in  jerky  monosyllables  that  to  an 
outsider  are  perfectly  incomprehensible.  But  the  glib 
way  in  which  heavy  sums  of  money  are  spoken  of  conveys 
the  impression  that  they  dabble  in  enormous  wealth. 

'There  are  dogs  under  the  tables  and  chairs;  dogs  in  the 
window-seat ;  dogs  panting  on  the  stone  flags  of  the 
passage,  after  a  sharp  trot  behind  a  trap,  choosing  the 
coolest  spot  to  loll  their  red  tongues  out  ;  dogs  outside 
in  the  road  ;  dogs  standing  on  hind-legs,  and  painfully 
lapping  the  water  in  the  horse-trough  ;  and  there  is  a 
yapping  of  puppies  in  the  distance.  The  cushions  of 
the  sofa  are  strewn  with  dogs'  hairs,  and  once  now  and 
then  a  dog  leisurely  hops  up  the  staircase. 

'  Customers  are  served  by  the  landlady,  a  decent  body 
enough  in  her  way  :  her  son,  the  man  of  the  twuse,  is  up 


H5ir^ 


136      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

n  the  "  orchut  "  at  the  rear,  feeding  his  dogs.  Where 
the  "  orchut  "  ends  in  a  paddock  stands  a  small  shed  ; 
in  places  the  thatch  on  the  roof  has  fallen  through  in 
the  course  of  years  and  revealed  the  bare  rafters.  The 
bottom  part  of  the  door  has  decayed,  and  the  long  nose 
of  a  greyhound  is  thrust  out,  sniffing  through  a  hole. 
Dickon,  the  said  son,  is  delighted  to  undo  the  padlock 
for  a  visitor  who  is  "  square."  In  an  instant  the  long 
hounds  leap  up,  half  a  dozen  at  a  time,  and  I  stagger 
backwards,  forced  by  the  sheer  vigour  of  their  caresses 
against  the  door-post.  Dickon  cannot  quell  the  up- 
roarious pack  ;  he  kicks  the  door  open,  and  away  they 
scamper  round  and  round  the  paddock  at  headlong 
speed. 

'  What  a  joy  it  is  to  them  to  stretch  their  limbs  ! 
I  forget  the  squalor  of  the  kennel  in  watching  their  happy 
gambols.  I  cannot  drink  more  than  one  tumbler  of 
brown  brandy-and-water ;  but  Dickon  overlooks  that 
weakness,  feeling  that  I  admire  his  greyhounds.  It  is 
arranged  that  I  am  to  see  them  work  in  the  autumn. 

'  The  months  pass,  and  in  his  trap,  with  the  famous 
trotter  in  the  shafts,  we  roll  up  the  village  street.  Apple- 
bloom  and  golden  fruit,  too,  are  gone,  and  the  houses 
show  more  now  among  the  bare  trees  ;  but  as  the  rim  of 
the  ruddy  November  sun  comes  forth  from  the  edge  of 
a  cloud  there  appears  a  buff  tint  everywhere  in  the  back- 
ground. When  elm  and  ash  are  bare,  the  oaks  retain 
their  leaves,  and  these  are  illumined  by  the  autumn 
beams.  Overtopped  by  tall  elms,  and  hidden  by  the 
orchards,  the  oaks  were  hardly  seen  in  the  summer  ;  now 
they  are  found  to  be  numerous,  and  give  the  prevailing 
hue  to  the  place. 

'  Dickon  taps  the  dashboard  as  th(^  mare  at  last  tops 
the  hill,  and  away  she  speeds  along  the  level  plateau  for 
the  Downs.  Two  greyhounds  arc  with  us  ;  two  more 
have  gone  on  under  charge  of  a  boy.  Skirting  the  hills  a 
mile  or  two,  we  presently  leave  the  road  and  drive  over 
the  turf ;  there  is  no  track,  but  Dickon  knows  his  way. 


FIRST  COUNTRY  BOOKS  137 

The  rendezvous  is  a  small  fir  plantation,  the  young  trees 
in  which  are  but  shoulder-high.  Below  is  a  plain  entirely 
surrounded  by  the  hills,  and  partly  green  with  root  crops  ; 
more  than  one  flock  of  sheep  is  down  there,  and  two 
teams  ploughing  the  stubble.  Neither  the  ploughman 
nor  the  shepherds  take  the  least  heed  of  us,  except  to 
watch  for  the  sport.  The  spare  couple  are  fastened  in 
the  trap  ;  the  boy  jumps  up  and  takes  the  reins.  Dickon 
puts  the  slip  on  the  couple  that  are  to  run  first,  and  we 
begin  to  range, 

'  Just  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  the  grass  is  tall  and  grey  ; 
there,  too,  are  the  dead  dry  stalks  of  many  plants  that 
cultivation  has  driven  from  the  ploughed  fields,  and  that 
find  a  refuge  at  the  edge.  A  hare  starts  from  the  verge 
and  makes  up  the  Downs.  Dickon  slips  the  hounds,  and 
a  faint  halloo  comes  from  the  shepherds  and  ploughmen. 
It  is  a  beautiful  sight  to  see  the  hounds  bound  over  the 
sward  ;  the  sinewy  back  bends  like  a  bow,  but  a  bow 
that,  instead  of  an  arrow,  shoots  itself  ;  the  deep  chests 
drink  the  air.  Is  there  any  moment  as  joyful  in  life  as 
the  second  when  the  chase  begins  ?  As  we  gaze,  before 
we  even  step  forward,  the  hare  is  over  the  ridge  and  out 
of  sight.  Then  we  race  and  tear  up  the  slope  ;  then  the 
boy  in  the  trap  grasps  the  reins,  and  away  goes  the  mare 
out  of  sight,  too. 

'Dickon  is  long  and  raw-boned,  a  powerful  fellow, strong 
of  limb,  and  twice  my  build  ;  but  he  sips  too  often  at  the 
brown  brandy,  and  after  the  first  burst  I  can  head  him. 
But  he  knows  the  hills  and  the  route  the  hare  will  take, 
so  that  I  have  but  to  keep  pace.  In  five  minutes,  as 
we  cross  a  ridge,  we  see  the  game  again  ;  the  hare  is 
circling  bqj:k — she  passes  under  us  not  fifty  yards  away, 
as  we  stand  panting  on  the  hill.  The  youngest  hound 
gains,  and  runs  right  over  her ;  she  doubles  ;  the  older 
hound  picks  up  the  running.  By  a  furze-bush  she  doubles 
again  ;  but  the  young  one  turns  her — the  next  moment 
she  is  in  the  jaws  of  the  old  dog. 

'  Again   and  again   the   hounds  are  slipped,  now  one 


138      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

couple,  now  the  other ;  we  pant,  and  can  scarcely  speak 
with  running,  but  the  wild  excitement  of  the  hour  and 
the  sweet  pure  air  of  the  Downs  supply  fresh  strength. 
The  little  lad  brings  the  mare  anywhere  :  through  the 
furze,  among  the  fiint-pits,  jolting  over  the  ruts,  she  rattles 
along  with  sure  alacrity.  There  are  five  hares  in  the  sack 
under  the  straw  when  at  last  we  get  up  and  '  slowly  drive 
down  to  the  highway,  reaching  it  some  two  miles  from 
where  we  left  it.  Dickon  sends  the  dogs  home  by  the 
boy  on  foot  ;  we  drive  round  and  return  to  the  village 
by  a  different  route,  entering  it  from  the  opposite  direc- 
tion. .  .  .'* 

When  such  vitality  begins  to  be  really  abundant  in 
literature,  the  moralists  may  begin  to  weed  out.  Jefferies 
asks  no  questions  in  '  The  Amateur  Poacher.'  Except 
in  his  power  to  observe  and  portray,  he  seems  the  plainest 
of  countrymen,  with  his  opinion  that  '  a  strong  man 
must  drink  now  and  then.' 

His  observation  is  in  most  cases  seconded  by  effective 
expression  ;  he  conveys  a  fact  in  a  way  that  gives  it  a 
value  beyond  the  simple  information.  But  in  this  book 
he  has  entered  upon  his  long  course  of  recording  minutely 
what  his  microscopic  glance  perceived,  and  clearly  it  is 
true  ;  yet  too  often  not  vivid  enough  for  literature  nor 
exact  enough  for  science,  as,  for  example,  here  : 

'  In  January  that  ice  that  freezes  in  the  ditches  appears 
of  a  dark  colour,  because  it  lies  without  intervening  water 
on  the  dead  brown  leaves.  Their  tint  shows  through  the 
translucent  crystal,  but  near  the  edge  of  the  ice  three 
white  lines  run  round.  If  by  any  chance  the  ice  gets 
broken  or  upturned,  these  white  bands  are  seen  to  be 
caused  by  flanges  projecting  from  the  undcr-surface, 
almost  like  stands.  They  are  sometimes  connected  in 
such  a  way  that  the  parallel  flanges  appear  like  the  letter 
"  h  "  with  the  two  down-strokes  prolonged. 'f 

And  this,  again,  is  an  extract  from  a  notebook,  and 
in  this  state  is  of  no  value  at  all  : 

*  The  Amateur  Poacher.  f  ^l^^'-i- 


FIRST  COUNTRY  BOOKS  139 

'  Overhead  light-grey  clouds,  closely  packed  but  not 
rainy,  drifted  very  slowly  before  a  N.E.  upper  current.'* 

Often  the  detail  is  neither  finely  wrought  nor  complete, 
but  it  tells  by  its  quantity,  and  by  the  rude  spirit  of  life 
in  the  whole.  Of  the  man  himself,  little  is  yet  revealed, 
though  much  of  his  youth.  He  still  accepts  things  just 
as  they  are,  enjoying  their  chance  issues,  as  when  Oby, 
his  fine  for  poaching  paid,  stands  with  tankard  in  hand 
and  touches  his  hat  to  the  passing  magistrate  '  with  a 
gesture  of  sly  humility.'  Coming  into  contact  with  an 
estate  managed  in  a  business-like  way,  he  only  reflects 
that  '  under  the  existing  system  of  land  tenure,  an  estate 
cannot  be  worked  like  the  machinery  of  a  factory.'  He 
did  not,  I  believe,  do  much,  if  any,  shooting  in  Surrey, 
but  he  was  a  sportsman  nevertheless,  from  the  way  in 
which  he  described  the  kind  of  shot  that  '  pleased  me 
most '  at  a  pheasant  going  so  fast  that  the  impetus 
carried  it  dead  many  yards.  Yet  it  is,  perhaps,  signi- 
ficant that  the  book  ends  with  the  fine  passage  already 
quoted — '  That  watching  so  often  stayed  the  shot  that  at 
last  it  grew  to  be  a  habit :  the  mere  simple  pleasure  of 
seeing  birds  and  animals,  when  they  were  quite  uncon- 
scious that  they  were  observed,  being  too  great  to  be 
spoiled  by  the  discharge ' — where  he  attributes  his 
pleasure  in  roaming  with  a  gun  not  so  much  to  the  shoot- 
ing as  to  the  watching ;  to  the  moving  about  in  the 
woods  alone,  walking  '  with  his  hands  in  his  boots,' 
innocently  rivalling  the  beasts  in  silence  and  skill ;  to 
the  '  something  which  the  ancients  called  divine  '  that 
is  still  to  be  found  and  felt  in  the  sunlight  and  the  pure 
wind. 

'  Round  about  a  Great  Estate  '  was  reprinted  from  the 
Pall  Mall  Gazette  in  1880.  It  is,  I  think,  the  pleasantest 
of  all  his  books  to  handle,  shorter  than  the  rest,  the  page 
good  and  the  type  large — a  book  in  almost  its  perfect 
physical  condition.  It  has  two  ludicrous  irrelevancies, 
yet  I  like  it  best  of  these  four  early  books.  The  short 
*  The  Amateur  Poacher. 


140       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

preface  marks  the  farthest  intellectual  advance  which 
Jefferies  had  yet  made.  He  has  given  many  notes  on 
the  country  life  of  the  earlier  half  of  the  century,  but, 
he  says,  he  would  not  wish  it  to  continue  or  return  : 

'  My  sympathies  and  hopes  are  with  the  light  of  the 
future,  only  I  should  like  it  to  come  from  nature.  The 
clock  should  be  read  by  the  sunshine,  not  the  sun  timed 
by  the  clock.  The  latter  is  indeed  impossible,  for  though 
all  the  clocks  in  the  world  should  declare  the  hour  of 
dawn  to  be  midnight,  the  sun  will  presently  rise  just  the 
same.'* 

But  this  was  written  after  the  book  itself,  which  is  of 
the  same  calibre  as  the  other  three.  It  could  hardly 
have  been  otherwise,  for  where  he  is  not  drawing  upon 
the  same  early  period  of  his  o\\ti  life,  he  is  drawing  upon 
the  memories  of  much  older  people,  of  his  father  and 
grandfather,  of  the  farmers  round  about,  of  old  Mrs. 
Rawlings,  perhaps  of  Miller  Brind  at  Liddington.  It  is 
not  a  novel,  but  it  contains  more  human  character  than  all 
the  earlier  novels  and  more  than  '  The  Amateur  Poacher.' 
Hilary  Luckett  is  probably  his  father,  with  something 
added  from  other  men,  perhaps  from  Andrew  Baden  of 
Day  House  Farm,  his  wife's  father.  The  faint,  adorable 
Cicely  may  be  a  compound  or  his  ideal  country  maid. 
As  in  '  The  Amateur  Poacher,'  his  characters  are  not 
meant  to  be  completed,  and  they  are  drawn  in  his  most 
genial  mood,  so  that  they  are  naturally  idyllic.  They  are 
met  by  accident  in  their  farms  or  fields  ;  they  talk  and 
stroll  together  ;  and  then  the  brooks  and  birds  and  fields 
insensibly  steal  upon  the  human  figures.  Aaron,  with 
the  old-fashioned  wallet  on  his  back,  is  John  Brown  the 
milker,  or  perhaps  Abner  Webb.  Old  Aaron  is  Job 
Brown,  the  man  of  the  little  Coate  shop.  The  hedge- 
carpenter  and  cobbler  who  used  the  bacon  for  soling 
boots  is  Thomas  Smith — or  '  John  Smith  ' — who  worked 
at  Day  House  Farm.  The  flint-haulier  was  one 
Stephen  Walker  of  Chisledon.  Here  is  Mrs.  Jefferies  at 
*  Round  about  a  Great  Estate. 


i 


FIRST  COUNTRY  BOOKS  141 

her  cheese-making ;  here  are  mills  and  millers ;  and 
Jefferies  himself  delighting  in  throwing  trees  ;  '  The  Sun  ' 
at  Coate  ;  the  '  Hodson  Ground  ';  and  his  favourite  ballad 
of  Dowsabell.  To  judge  from  a  reference  in  '  Cuckoo 
Fields,'  he  had  revisited  Coate  in  1879  at  about  the  time 
when  the  farmhouse  and  lands  were  sold.  But  there  is 
no  trace  of  that  in  the  gossip  about  Hilary  : 

'  If  you  should  be  visiting  Okebourne  Chace,  and  any 
question  should  arise,  whether  of  horses,  dog,  or  gun,  you 
are  sure  to  be  referred  to  Hilary.  Hilary  knows  all 
about  it  :  he  is  the  authority  thereabout  on  all  matters 
concerning  game.  Is  it  proposed  to  plant  fresh  covers  ? 
Hilary's  opinion  is  asked.  Is  it  proposed  to  thin  out  some 
of  the  older  trees  ?     What  does  Hilary  say  ? 

'  It  is  a  fact  that  people  really  believe  no  part  of  a 
partridge  is  ever  taken  away  after  being  set  before  him. 
Neither  bones  nor  sinews  remain  :  so  fond  is  he  of  the 
brown  bird.  Having  eaten  the  breast,  and  the  juicy  leg 
and  the  delicate  wing,  he  next  proceeds  to  suck  the  bones  ; 
for  game  to  be  thoroughly  enjoyed  should  be  eaten  like 
a  mince-pie,  in  the  fingers.  There  is  always  one  bone 
with  a  sweeter  flavour  than  the  rest,  just  at  the  joint 
or  fracture  :  it  varies  in  every  bird,  according  to  the 
chance  of  cooking,  but,  having  discovered  it,  put  it  aside 
for  further  and  more  strict  attention.  Presently  he 
begins  to  grind  up  the  bones  in  his  strong  teeth,  com- 
mencing with  the  smallest.  His  teeth  are  not  now  so 
powerful  as  when  in  younger  days  he  used  to  lift  a  sack 
of  wheat  with  them,  or  the  full  milking  bucket  up  to  the 
level  of  the  copper  in  the  dairy.  Still,  they  gradually 
reduce  the  slender  skeleton.  The  feat  is  not  so  difficult 
if  the  bird  has  been  weU  hung:i.  .  .  . 

'  As  we  sat  in  his  house  one  evening,  there  grew  upon 
our  ears  a  peculiar  sound,  a  humming  deep  bass,  some- 
what resembling  the  low  notes  of  a  piano  with  a  pressure 
on  the  pedal.  It  increased  and  became  louder,  coming 
from  the  road  which  passed  the  house  ;  it  was  caused  by 
a  very  large  flock  of  sheep  driven  slowly.     The  individual 


142      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

"  baa  "  of  each  lamb  was  so  mixed,  as  it  were,  uith  the 
bleat  of  its  fellow  that  the  swelling  sound  took  a  strange 
mysterious  tone  ;  a  voice  that  seemed  to  speak  of  trouble, 
and  perplexity,  and  anxiety  for  rest.  Hilary,  as  a 
farmer,  must  of  course  go  out  to  see  whose  they  were,  and 
I  went  with  him  ;  but  before  we  reached  the  garden  gate 
he  turned  back,  remarking,  "  It's  Johnson's  flock  ;  I  know 
the  tang  of  his  tankards."  The  flat-shaped  bells  hung 
on  a  sheep's  neck  are  called  tankards  ;  and  Hilary'  could 
distinguish  one  flock  from  another  b}'  the  var^'ing  notes 
of  their  bells.'  * 

There  is  much  masterly  gossip,  ■with  a  sensuous  qualit\' 
in  the  words  and  sound  of  it,  beyond  anj^thing  he  had  yet 
written.  The  delicious  quiet  of  its  best  cannot  be  excelled. 
When  the  subject  of  the  moment  is  baking  bread  in  a 
brick  oven,  the  writing  is  at  one  with  that  sweet  toil 
itself  : 

'  They  still  baked  a  batch  of  bread  occasionally,  but  not 
all  that  w^as  required.  Cicely  superintended  the  baking, 
passing  the  barm  through  a  sieve  with  a  wisp  of  clean 
hay  in  it.  The  hay  takes  off  any  sourness,  and  insures 
it  being  perfectly  sweet.  She  knew  when  the  oven  was 
hot  enough  by  the  gauge-brick  :  this  particular  brick, 
as  the  heat  increased,  became  spotted  with  white,  and 
when  it  had  turned  quite  white  the  oven  was  ready.  The 
wood  embers  were  raked  out  with  the  scraper,  and  the 
malkin,  being  wetted,  cleaned  out  the  ashes.  "  Thee 
looks  like  a  gurt  malkin  "  is  a  common  term  of  reproach 
among  the  poor  folk — meaning  a  bunch  of  rags  on  the 
end  of  a  stick.  We  went  out  to  look  at  the  oven  ;  and 
then  Mrs.  Luckett  made  me  taste  her  black-currant  gin, 
which  was  very  good.  Presently  we  went  into  the 
orchard  to  look  at  the  first  apple-tree  out  in  bloom. 
While  there  a  magpie  flew  across  the  meadow,  and  as  I 
watched  it  Mrs.  Luckett  advised  me  to  turn  my  back 
and  not  to  look  too  long  in  that  direction.  "  For,"  said 
she,  "  one  magpie  is  good  luck,  but  two  mean  sorrow  ;  and 
•  Round  about  a  Great  Estate. 


FIRST  COUNTRY  BOOKS  143 

if  you  should  see  three — goodness  ! — something  awful 
might  happen."  '* 

Or  again  : 

'  Just  outside  the  palings  of  the  courtyard  at  Luckett's 
Place,  in  front  of  the  dadry,  was  a  line  of  damson  and 
plum-trees  standing  in  a  narrow  patch  bordered  by  a 
miniature  box-hedge.  The  thrushes  were  always  search- 
ing about  in  this  box,  which  was  hardly  high  enough  to 
hide  them,  for  the  snails  which  they  found  there.  They 
broke  the  shells  on  the  stone  flags  of  the  garden  path 
adjacent,  and  were  often  so  intently  occupied  in  the  box 
as  to  seem  to  fly  up  from  under  the  very  feet  of  anyone 
who  passed. 

'  Under  the  damson-tree  the  first  white  snowdrops 
came,  and  the  crocuses,  whose  yellow  petals  often 
appeared  over  the  snow,  and  presently  the  daffodils  and 
the  beautiful  narcissus.  There  were  cowslips  and  prim- 
roses, too,  which  the  boys  last  year  had  planted  upside 
down,  that  they  might  come  up  variegated.  The  earliest 
violet  was  gathered  there,  for  the  comer  was  enclosed  on 
three  sides,  and  somehow  the  sunshine  fell  more  genially 
in  that  untrimmed  spot  than  in  formal  gardens  where  it 
is  courted.  Against  the  house  a  pear  was  trained,  and 
opened  its  white  bloom  the  first  of  all ;  in  its  shelter  the 
birds  built  their  nests.  The  chaffinches  called  cheerfully 
on  the  plum-trees,  and  sang  in  the  early  morning.  When 
the  apples  bloomed,  the  goldfinches  visited  the  same 
trees  at  least  once  a  day. 

'  A  damask  rose  opened  its  single  petals,  the  sweetest- 
scented  of  all  the  roses  :  there  were  a  few  strawberries 
under  the  wall  of  the  house  ;  by-and-by  the  pears  above 
enlarged,  and  the  damsons  were  coated  with  bloom.  On  the 
tall  plum-trees  hung  the  large  purplish-red  plums  :  upon 
shaking  the  tree,  one  or  two  came  down  with  a  thud.  The 
branches  of  the  damsons  depended  so  low,  looking,  as  it 
were,  right  into  the  court,  and  pressing  the  fruit  against 
your  very  face  as  you  entered,  that  you  could  not  choose 

♦  Round  about  a  Great  Estate. 


144      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

but  take  some  when  it  was  ripe.  A  blue-painted  barrel 
churn  stood  by  the  door  ;  young  Aaron  turned  it  in  the 
morning,  while  the  finches  called  in  the  plum-trees,  but 
now  and  then  not  all  the  strength  of  his  sturdy  shoulders 
nor  patient  hours  of  turning  could  "  fetch  "  the  butter, 
for  a  witch  had  been  busy. 

'  Sometimes,  on  entering  the  dairy  in  the  familiar 
country  way,  you  might  find  Cicely,  now  almost  come  to 
womanhood,  at  the  cheese-tub.  As  she  bent  over  it,  her 
rounded  arms,  bare  nearly  to  the  shoulder,  were  laved 
in  the  white  milk.  It  must  have  been  from  the  dairy 
that  Poppaea  learned  to  bathe  in  milk,  for  Cicely's  arms 
shone  white  and  smooth,  with  the  gleam  of  a  perfect  skin. 
But  Mrs.  Luckett  would  never  let  her  touch  the  salt, 
which  will  ruin  the  hands.  Cicely,  however,  who  would 
do  something,  turned  the  cheeses  in  the  cheese-room 
alone.  Taking  one  corner  of  the  clean  cloth  in  her  teeth, 
in  a  second,  by  some  dexterous  sleight  of  hand,  the 
heavy  cheese  was  over,  though  ponderous  enough  to  puzzle 
many  a  man,  especially  as  it  had  to  come  over  gently, 
that  the  shape  might  not  be  injured. 

'  She  did  it  without  the  least  perceptible  exertion.  At 
the  moment  of  the  turn,  when  the  weight  must  have  been 
felt,  there  was  no  knot  of  muscle  visible  on  her  arm.  That 
is  the  difference  ;  for 

"  When  Ajax  strives  some  rock's  vast  weight  to  throw," 

the  muscles  of  the  man's  limb  knot  themselves  and  stand 
out  in  bold  relief.  The  smooth  contour  of  Cicely's  arm 
never  varied.  Mrs.  Luckett,  talking  about  cheese  as  we 
watched  Cicely  one  morning,  said  people's  taste  had 
much  altered  ;  for  she  understood  they  were  now  fond  of 
a  foreign  sort  that  was  full  of  holes.  The  old  saying  was 
that  bread  should  be  full  of  holes,  cheese  should  have 
none.  Just  then  Hilary  entered,  and  completed  the 
triad  by  adding  that  ale  should  make  you  see  double. 

'  So  he  called  for  the  brown  jug,  and  he  and  I  had  a 
glass.     On   my  side  of   the  jug  stood   a  sportsman   in 


From  a  daguerreotype. 


ELIZABETH   JEFFERIES, 
the  mother  of  Richard  Jefferies. 


FIRST  COUNTRY  BOOKS  145 

breeches  and  gaiters,  his  gun  presented,  and  ever  in  the 
act  to  fire  :  his  dog  pointed,  and  the  birds  were  flying 
towards  Hilary.  Though  rude  in  design,  the  scene  was 
true  to  nature  and  the  times  :  from  the  buttons  on  the 
coat  to  the  long  barrel  of  the  gun,  the  details  were 
accurate,  and  nothing  improved  to  suit  the  artist's  fancy. 
To  me  these  old  jugs  and  mugs  and  bowls  have  a  deep 
and  human  interest,  for  you  can  seem  to  see  and  know 
the  men  who  drank  from  them  in  the  olden  days. 

'  Now,  a  tall  Worcester  vase,  with  all  its  elegance  and 
gilding,  though  it  may  be  valued  at  £5,000,  lacks  that 
sympathy,  and  may  please  the  eye,  but  does  not  touch 
the  heart.  For  it  has  never  shared  in  the  jovial  feast 
nor  comforted  the  weary  ;  the  soul  of  man  has  never 
communicated  to  it  some  of  its  own  subtle  essence.  But 
this  hollow  bowl  whispers  back  the  genial  songs  that 
were  shouted  over  it  a  hundred  years  ago.  On  the 
ancient  Grecian  pottery,  too,  the  hunter  with  his  spear 
chases  the  boar  or  urges  his  hounds  after  the  flying  deer  ; 
the  women  are  dancing,  and  you  can  almost  hear  the 
notes  of  the  flute.  These  things  were  part  of  their  daily 
life  ;  these  are  no  imaginary  pictures  of  imaginary  and 
impossible  scenes  :  they  are  simply  scenes  in  which  every- 
one took  part.  So  I  think  that  the  old  English  jugs 
and  mugs  and  bowls  are  true  art,  with  something  of  the 
antique  classical  spirit  in  them,  for  truly  you  can  read 
the  hearts  of  the  folk  for  whom  they  were  made.  .  .  .'* 

The  blissful  ease  and  sincerity  of  these  things  are  too 
near  perfection  for  questions  to  be  asked  about  Jefferies' 
education  in  art.  In  his  visit  to  Tibbald,  the  miller,  when 
they  talk  about  the  millstones  and  '  the  care,  the  skill, 
the  forethought,  and  the  sense/of  just  proportion  '  of  the 
millwright,  he  shows  again  how  he  regrets  that  machinery, 
in  destroying  the  handicraft,  has  taken  away  yet  another 
means  of  culture  from  the  countryman. 

The  genial  mood  of  this  period  has  brought  it  about 
that,  although  the  book  is  crammed  with  odds  and  ends 

*  Round  about  a  Great  Estate. 

10 


146      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

of  local  lore,  it  is  as  easy  to  read  as  a  hedge  of  hazel  and 
oak  and  thorn  and  maple  and  dogwood  and  brier  is  to  be 
walked  along  ;  and  '  A  Farmer  of  the  Olden  Times,'  for 
example,  a  picture  of  Uncle  Jonathan  at  the  Idovers, 
about  1810,  is  a  picture  easy  and  mellow  in  treatment, 
fine  in  detail,  which  makes  it  absurd  to  speak  with  any- 
thing but  respect  of  Jefferies'  eye  and  feeling  for  humanity. 
When  in  1887  he  lay  dying,  and  writing — dictating,  I 
should  say — his  introduction  to  the  '  Natural  History 
of  Selborne,'  he  regretted  that  Gilbert  White  had  left 
the  human  life  of  his  parish  almost  untouched.  Against 
Jefferies  no  such  charge  can  be  brought,  and  I  cannot 
think  that  White  would  have  left  us  a  more  lively  and 
various  scene  had  he  taken  the  time  for  painting  it 
out  of  his  long  placid  life.  In  these  four  books,  from 
'  The  Gamekeeper  '  to  '  The  Great  Estate,'  for  almost 
the  first  time  in  English  literature  a  pure  countryman 
who  is  nothing  but  a  countryman  reveals  his  life  and 
neighbourhood.  No  man  could  be  neglected  who  had 
so  much  knowledge  which  it  is  impossible  to  acquire 
by  effort  and  time  alone  ;  his  power  of  showing  the 
joy  in  things,  and  of  making  them  a  means  to  joy,  gives 
him  stni  higher  claims.  Thus,  at  his  best,  he  writes  as  if 
his  hand  had  in  it  part  of  that  spirit  which  builds  the 
hills  and  lights  the  stars  over  them  ;  in  his  veins  are  the 
saps  of  oak  and  ash  and  elm,  the  blood  of  things  that  run 
and  fly  and  creep.  Like  Constable,  he  might  have  said  : 
*  I  love  every  stile  and  stump  and  lane  in  the  village  ; 
as  long  as  I  am  able  to  hold  a  brush  I  shall  never  cease 
to  paint  them.' 

Though  published  in  1884,  '  Red  Deer  '  belongs  to  the 
same  class  as  these  four  books.  In  June,  1882,  Jefferies 
was  on  Exmoor,  watching  the  red-deer,  trout-fishing,  and 
walking  by  Exe  and  Barle.  '  Red  Deer  '  and  some  of 
the  essays  in  '  The  Life  of  the  Fields  '  and  '  Field  and 
Hedgerow  '  were  among  the  results.  He  seems  not  to 
have  gone  farther  to  fulfil  his  youthful  dream  of  Arthurian 
Cornwall.     Jefferies  himself  says  of  the  book  that  '  it  is 


FIRST  COUNTRY  BOOKS  147 

in  the  same  style  as  "  The  Gamekeeper."  '*  It  is,  he  says, 
'  a  minute  account  of  the  natural  history  of  the  wild  deer 
of  Exmoor  and  of  the  mode  of  hunting  them.  I  went 
all  over  Exmoor  a  short  while  since  on  foot  in  order  to 
see  the  deer  for  myself  ;  and  in  addition  I  had  the  advan- 
tages of  getting  full  information  from  the  huntsman 
himself  and  from  others  who  have  watched  the  deer  for 
twenty  years  past.  The  chase  of  the  wild  stag  is  a  bit 
out  of  the  life  of  the  fifteenth  century  brought  down  to 
our  own  times.  Nothing  has  interested  me  so  much,  and 
I  contemplate  going  down  again.  In  addition,  there  are 
in  the  MS.  a  number  of  Somerset  poaching  tricks,  which 
were  explained  to  me  by  gamekeepers  and  by  a  land- 
owner there.'  He  points  out  that  there  are  no  competitors 
in  the  field  ;  and  '  as  Somerset  and  Devon  are  annually 
visited  by  some  thousands  of  people  for  trout-fishing  (I 
was  trout-fishing  there  lately),  hunting,  and  the  scenery, 
I  thought  a  book  on  the  deer — which  they  all  inquire 
about — and  full  of  local  colour  would  be  certain  of  some 
sale,  not  only  one  year,  but  perhaps  several  seasons  in 
succession.'  It  is,  in  fact,  one  of  the  most  readable 
sporting  treatises  that  exists,  if  treatise  it  may  be  called, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  no  sportsman  would  go  to  it  for 
information.  It  is  of  all  Jefferies'  books  the  most  orderly, 
consistent,  and  complete,  if  we  exclude  the  make-weight 
of  two  chapters  at  the  end.  Having  set  himself  to  write 
a  book  on  an  attractive  but  little-known  subject,  he 
became  a  reporting  journalist  again,  and  subdued  himself 
to  the  subject  to  such  purpose  that  he  seems  to  be  the 
docile  gamekeeper's  friend  again — when,  for  example, 
he  writes  : 

'  The  way  to  kill  those  birds  [magpies]  is  to  hang  up  a 
dead  lamb,  poisoned,  in  a  tree  ;  they  tear  the  flesh,  and 
are  destroyed  by  the  poison  it  has  absorbed.  .  .  .  Owls 
are  very  numerous  in  the  covers.  Wood-owls  or  brown- 
owls,  as  they  are  indifferently  called,  are  considered  by 
the  keepers  destructive   to  game,   especially   to   young 

*  In  a  letter  to  C.  J.  Longman,  August  22,  1883. 

10 — 2 


148      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

rabbits.  .  .  .  They  will  take  a  leveret.  ...  To  draw 
an  owl  from  his  nest  in  a  hollow  tree  is  not  a  pleasant 
task,  even  with  a  glove  on  ;  he  will  often  manage  to  get 
his  sharp  claws  into  the  wrist.  The  way  is  to  seize  his 
head  and  crush  it,  killing  him  instantly,  for  an  owl's  head 
is  soft,  and  can  be  crushed  easily.  .  .  .  Buzzards  are 
sometimes  shot,  and  are  now  worth  something  to  sell  to 
collectors.'* 

For  the  time  being  he  has  evidently  entered  into  the 
feelings  of  the  game  preserver  and  gamekeeper,  and  '  the 
joy  of  life  '  and  even  the  facts  about  the  wood-owls' 
diet  have  passed  out  of  mind.  Nevertheless,  he  attains 
to  the  opinion  that  '  too  severe  punishment '  of  poachers 
is  responsible  for  their  violence. 

Jefferies  has  mastered  his  material,  and  amid  all  the 
technique  of  an  ancient  and  exclusive  sport  is  never  dull. 
The  landscape  is  suggested  in  its  breadth  and  with  just 
enough  detail,  and  it  makes  a  comprehensible  setting  to 
the  whole.  Only  once  does  he  pause  in  what  was  prob- 
ably a  rapidly  written  book  to  satisfy  the  exquisite 
curiosity  of  his  eye,  when  he  has  to  speak  of  '  the  ruddy 
golden  coat  of  the  warrantable  deer,' with  the  bright  sun- 
light shining  on  it  '  so  that  the  colour  seemed  unsteady, 
or  as  if  it  was  visibly  emanating  and  flowing  forth  in 
undulations.  .  .  .  There  is  an  unsteadiness  of  surface 
as  if  it  came  a  little  towards  you,  and  was  wavy.'  The 
writing,  very  careless  in  one  or  two  places,  is  suited  to 
its  purpose  ;  it  never  shines,  but  runs  comfortably  forward 
with  narrative,  discussion,  explanation,  and  pictures  such 
as  this  : 

'  There  is  no  more  beautiful  creature  than  a  stag  in 
his  pride  of  antler,  his  coat  of  ruddy  gold,  his  grace  of 
form  and  motion.  He  seems  the  natural  owner  of  the 
ferny  coombes,  the  oak  woods,  the  broad  slopes  of  heather. 
They  belong  to  him,  and  he  steps  upon  the  sward  in 
lordly  mastership.  The  land  is  his,  and  the  hills,  the 
sweet  streams,  and  rocky  glens.     He  is  infmitely  more 

♦  Red  Deer, 


FIRST  COUNTRY  BOOKS  149 

natural  than  the  cattle  and  sheep  that  have  strayed  into 
his  domains.  For  some  inexplicable  reason,  although 
they  too  are  in  reality  natural,  when  he  is  present  they 
look  as  if  they  had  been  put  there  and  were  kept  there 
by  artificial  means.  They  do  not,  as  painters  say,  shade 
in  with  the  colours  and  shape  of  the  landscape.  He  is 
as  natural  as  an  oak,  or  a  fern,  or  a  rock  itself.  He 
is  earth-born — autochthon — and  holds  possession  by 
descent.  Utterly  scorning  control,  the  walls  and  hedges 
are  nothing  to  him — he  roams  where  he  chooses,  as  fancy 
leads,  and  gathers  the  food  that  pleases  him.  .  .  .'* 

For  its  subject,  its  adequate  statement  and  description 
of  matters  even  now  little  touched  by  books,  and  for 
its  author,  '  Red  Deer  '  may  long  be  remembered  ;  but 
among  his  works  it  is  something  of  a  tour  de  force,  and 
is  almost  the  only  one  which  might  be  well  liked  and  yet 
not  invite  the  reader  to  any  of  the  others  ;  and  in  spite 
of  the  advantage  of  unity  which  he  gains  from  a  well- 
defined  subject,  it  hardly  makes  us  regret  that  he  did 
not  oftener  forsake  the  essay  form,  with  all  its  encourage- 
ment of  looseness  and  irrelevance. 

*  Red  Deer. 


CHAPTER  X 

'NATURE  NEAR  LONDON' 

When  he  had  written  *  The  Gamekeeper  '  and  its  three 
companion  books,  Jefferies  had  all  but  exhausted  his 
notes  of  Coate  Farm  and  the  surrounding  country  ;  he 
had  made  a  mental  retrogression  in  order  to  use  them 
more  vividly.  When  he  writes  about  that  county  again 
it  is  nearly  always  as  one  who,  having  travelled  to  a 
distant  city  of  the  mind,  can  never  return.  His  memories 
of  Wiltshire  are  inexhaustible  ;  but  '  Wood  Magic  '  and 
'  Bevis  '  are  not  memories  as  were  the  earlier  books. 
The  Surbiton  country  definitely  appeared  in  '  Wild  Life,' 
and  no  doubt  his  observations  there  helped  him  in  the 
other  books  of  that  time  ;  but  it  was  when  he  had  emptied 
his  Wiltshire  notebooks  that  he  began  to  use  chiefly 
those  of  Surbiton.  Parts  of  '  Nature  near  London  '  were 
written  in  1881  ;  so,  too,  was  '  The  Coming  of  Summer,' 
and  perhaps  '  The  Spring  of  the  Year  ' ;  the  material  is 
clearly  taken  from  1877  and  the  following  years.  And 
not  only  is  the  material  new,  but  the  eye  that  sees  and 
the  mind  that  broods  over  it  is  changed.  The  old,  simpler 
exuberance  of  '  The  Poacher  '  is  lost.  Thoughts  have 
troubled  and  checked  it  ;  his  health  is  finally  to  give 
way  in  1881  ;  and  the  new  surroundings  are  not  a  part 
of  him,  as  were  the  old,  and  he  seems  to  see  them  more  as 
strange  pictures — as  pictures  which  his  brooding  and 
solitary  mind  more  and  more  informs ;  the  labourers 
and  farmers  and  keepers  who  used  to  move  about  the 
Wiltshire  fields  have  disappeared,  and  the  landscape  is 

150 


'  NATURE  NEAR  LONDON  '  151 

rather  inhuman  for  a  time,  for  in  Surrey  he  knew  nobody, 
though  he  saw  ploughman  and  milker  and  harvester. 
But  he  had  to  write,  and  the  demand  for  his  short  country 
papers  having  been  established,  he  naturally  kept  to  that 
desultory  form.  He  had  made  the  discovery  that  it  was 
not  necessary  to  go  far  into  the  country  '  to  find  wild 
birds  and  animals  in  sufficient  numbers  to  be  pleasantly 
studied.'  The  subject  would  appeal  to  a  London  editor 
and  audience.  The  Standard,  which  had  printed  '  Hodge 
and  His  Masters,'  printed  the  papers  collected  under  the 
title  of  '  Nature  near  London  '  in  1883. 

In  these  papers  he  is  no  longer  the  sportsman,  and  not 
obviously  the  countryman.  He  is  the  man  of  sensitive 
eyes  and  ears,  the  artist  in  a  narrow  sense.  He  describes 
a  place,  or  more  often  a  series  of  places,  along  the  paths 
and  roads  of  a  day's  walk  at  a  particular  season,  with 
digressions,  as  memory  or  the  need  of  comparison  prompts 
him,  to  other  seasons  and  places.  There  is  no  aim  at 
exact  unity  and  consistency  of  subject  and  treatment. 
He  is  always  the  walker,  moving  about  and  taking  notes. 
It  is  doubtful  if  the  most  careful  resident  observer  could 
follow  him  accurately  in  half  the  papers,  which  resemble 
the  record  of  an  actual  walk,  closed  up  so  as  to  avoid 
barren  stretches,  and  of  whatever  is  seen  and  thought  in 
the  course  of  the  walk.  In  '  Heathlands  '  the  movements 
of  a  colony  of  ants  fill  half  the  space  given  to  the  fir  and 
heath  of  Oxshott.  This  increasing  attention  to  small 
things  may  have  come  the  more  rapidly  for  his  inability 
to  walk  as  far  as  he  used  to  do.  He  was  always  a  careful 
watcher  of  the  skies,  and  the  Thames  Valley  and  the 
neighbourhood  of  London  gave  his  eyes  a  fuller  harvest 
than  ever.  He  hardly  found  a  sufficient  outlet  for  his 
knowledge  of  the  atmosphere,  its  colour  and  form. 
Ruskin  surpasses  him  in  his  effects,  and  yet  has  not 
Jefferies'  exquisite  eye  ;  with  no  other  writer  can  there 
be  any  comparison  for  variety  and  delicacy  in  description 
of  the  coloured  air.  Some  papers,  such  as  '  Nutty 
Autumn,'  '  Wheatfields,'  and  'A  Barn,'  have  a  unity  of 


152      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

feeling  and  colour,  and  though  they  are  not  meant  to 
compete  with  painting,  they  have  the  effect  of  a  rich, 
humanized  landscape.  But  it  is  the  seasonableness  of 
the  gossip  which  gives  whatever  unity  they  have  to  the 
papers  that  are  without  a  definite  subject,  such  as  '  Trees 
about  Town,'  '  Kew  Gardens,'  '  A  London  Trout.'  Thus 
the  repetition  which  is  noticeable  in  '  The  Coming  of 
Summer  '  and  '  Round  a  London  Copse  '  is  inevitable. 
Most  are  for  the  Londoners  at  whose  doors  these  things 
were  being  discovered.  They  inform  ;  they  prove  the 
truth  of  his  assertion  that  '  the  quantity  and  variety  of 
life  in  the  hedges  was  really  astonishing  '  ;  and  to  mainly 
urban  minds  they  may  long  be  pleasant — '  The  River,' 
'  Nutty  Autumn,'  and  '  A  Barn  '  most  deservedly  so — 
for  they  make  a  charming  inventory  even  when,  as  in 
'  The  Spring  of  the  Year,'  they  are  but  notes  and  dates 
and  place-names,  such  as  Long  Ditton  Road,  Red  Lion 
Lane,  Hogsmill  Brook,  Cockrow  Hill,  Southborough  and 
Worcester  Parks,  Hook,  Horton,  and  the  footpath  from 
Roxby  Farm  to  Chessington.  Now  and  then,  even  in 
these  informing  papers,  Jefferies  escapes  to  write  of  the 
strength  and  glory  of  the  spring  sun  :  '  Joy  in  life  ;  joy 
in  life.  The  ears  listen  and  want  more  :  the  eyes  are 
gratified  with  gazing,  and  desire  yet  further  ;  the  nostrils 
are  filled  with  the  sweet  odours  of  flower  and  sap.  The 
touch,  too,  has  its  pleasures,  dallying  with  leaf  and 
flower.  Can  you  not  almost  grasp  the  odour-laden  air 
and  hold  it  in  the  hollow  of  the  hand  ?'  Or  he  remembers 
the  greenfinches'  love-making  in  the  elms.  Probably  he 
took  the  advice  which  he  gives  in  '  Footpaths,'  '  Always 
get  over  a  stile.' 

Where  he  catalogues,  it  is  with  an  eye  more  bent  upon 
the  finest  detail  of  form  and  colour  than  before.  In 
'  A  Brook  '  he  tells  how  he  uses  his  sight  :  '  Even  the 
deepest,  darkest  water  (not,  of  course,  muddy)  yields 
after  a  while  to  the  eye.  Half  close  the  eyelids,  and  while 
gazing  into  it  let  your  intelligence  rather  wait  upon  the 
corners  of  the  eye  than  on  the  glance  you  cast  straight 


•  NATURE  NEAR  LONDON  '      153 

forward.  For  some  reason  when  thus  gazing  the  edge 
of  the  eye  becomes  exceedingly  sensitive,  and  you  are 
conscious  of  slight  motion  or  of  a  thickness — not  a 
defined  object,  but  a  thickness  which  indicates  an  objeot 
— which  is  otherwise  quite  invisible.'*  Some  of  his 
minute  descriptions  read  like  instructions  to  an  artist, 
and  they  prove  a  busy  eye  and  nothing  more  ;  others, 
again,  with  an  excellent  curiosity  and  patient  attempt 
to  record  visible  things  not  noticed  before,  may  call  for 
the  admiration  of  the  humble,  but  can  please  few — as, 
for  example,  in  a  description  like  this  of  the  waves  of  an 
eddy  : 

'  Now,  walking  behind  the  waves  that  roll  away  from 
you,  dark  shadowy  spots  fluctuate  to  and  fro  in  the  trough 
of  the  water.  Before  a  glance  can  define  its  shape,  the 
shadow  elongates  itself  from  a  spot  to  an  oval,  the  oval 
melts  into  another  oval,  and  reappears  afar  off.  When, 
too,  in  flood-time,  the  hurrying  current  seems  to  respond 
more  sensitively  to  the  shape  of  the  shallows  and  the 
banks  beneath,  there  boils  up  from  below  a  ceaseless 
succession  of  irregular  circles,  as  if  the  water  there  ex- 
panded from  a  centre,  marking  the  verge  of  its  outflow 
with  bubbles  and  raised  lines  upon  the  surface. 'f 

But  in  '  A  Barn  '  this  observation  has  fallen  into  its 
place,  and  has  made  a  real  picture,  where  there  is 
no  detail  impeding  the  whole,  nor  any  struggle  with 
dead  words,  as  in  the  piece  just  quoted.  '  Wheat- 
fields,'  too,  is  beautiful  in  the  exact  detail  and  in  the 
suffused  spirit  of  the  whole.  *  Sweet  summer,'  he  sa^^s, 
'  is  but  just  long  enough  for  the  happy  loves  of  the 
larks.'  How  tender  he  is  now  in  speaking  of  the  birds, 
even  of  the  sparrows  !  '  I  like  sparrows,'  he  says,  in 
'  The  Spring  of  the  Year, 'J  '  and  am  always  glad  to  hear 
their  chirp  ;  the  house  seems  still  and  quiet  after  the 
nesting-time,  when  they  leave  us  for  the  wheatfields, 
where  they  stay  the  rest  of  the  summer.     What  happy 

*  '  A  Brook,'  Nature  near  London.  f  '  The  River,'  ibid. 

%  Longman's  Magazine,  June,  1894. 


154      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

days  they  have  among  the  ripening  corn  !'  Actually,  a 
farmer's  son  who  thinks  of  the  happiness  of  sparrows  in  the 
corn  !  '  Nutty  Autumn  '  has  some  learned  and  delightful 
colour  notes.  Artists  may  treasure  them  ;  they  may 
teach  others  how  to  see  ;  but  notes  they  remain,  in  spite 
of  the  conclusion  : 

'  The  autumn  itself  is  nutty,  brown,  hard,  frosty,  and 
sweet.  Nuts  are  hard,  frosts  are  hard  ;  but  the  one  is 
sweet,  and  the  other  braces  the  strong.  Exercise  often 
wearies  in  the  spring,  and  in  the  summer  heats  is  scarcely 
to  be  faced  ;  but  in  autumn,  to  those  who  are  well,  every 
step  is  bracing  and  hardens  the  frame,  as  the  sap  is 
hardening  in  the  trees.'* 

It  was  written  in  the  autumn  of  1881,  and  hints  that  he 
was  not  one  of  those  who  are  well.  To  this  class  of  notes 
belong  the  opening  and  other  parts  of  '  The  River,'  the 
end  of  '  The  Crows,'  and  the  description  of  the  London 
atmosphere  floating  out  to  the  country  before  a  north-east 
wind.     He  writes,  hi  '  The  River  ': 

'  There  is  a  slight  but  perceptible  colour  in  the  atmo- 
sphere of  summer.  It  is  not  visible  close  at  hand,  nor 
always  where  the  light  falls  strongest,  and  if  looked  at 
too  long  it  sometimes  fades  away.  But  over  gorse  and 
heath,  in  the  warm  hollows  of  wheatfields,  and  round 
about  the  rising  ground,  there  is  something  more  than  air 
alone.  It  is  not  mist,  nor  the  hazy  vapour  of  autumn, 
nor  the  blue  tints  that  come  over  distant  hills  and 
woods. 

'  As  there  is  bloom  upon  the  peach  and  grape,  so  this 
is  the  bloom  of  summer.  The  air  is  ripe  and  rich,  full 
of  the  emanations,  the  perfume,  froip  corn  and  flower 
and  leafy  tree.  In  strictness  the  term  will  not,  of  course, 
be  accurate,  yet  by  what  other  word  can  this  appearance 
in  the  atmosphere  be  described  but  as  a  bloom  ?  Upon 
a  still  and  sunlit  summer  afternoon  it  may  be  seen  over 
the  osier-covered  islets  in  the  Thames  immediately  above 
Teddington  Lock.'f 

•  '  Nutty  Autumn,'  Nature  near  London.        t  'The  River,'  ibid. 


'  NATURE  NEAR  LONDON  '      155 

Curiosity  seems  in  places  to  outstrip  his  sense  of 
beauty  ;  he  ceases  to  be  an  artist,  and  is  perhaps  not  yet 
a  scientist.     There  is  much  curiosity  in  '  A  Brook  '  and 

*  A  London  Trout.'  But  the  trout  which  his  fond  eyes 
at  length  disentangled  from  the  forms  of  water  and  weed 
in  the  Hogsmill  brook,  and  his  watching,  justify  the 
curiosity.  He  watched  it  for  weeks,  months,  for  four 
seasons,  and  took  great  precautions  that  no  one  should 
find  out  what  he  watched  ;  '  if  anyone  was  following  me, 
or  appeared  likely  to  peer  over  the  parapet,  I  carelessly 
struck  the  top  of  the  wall  with  my  stick  in  such  a  manner 
that  it  should  project,  an  action  sufficient  to  send  the 
fish  under  the  arch  ';  and  the  river  was  colder,  darker,  and 
less  pleasant  when  it  had  gone.  He  has  begun  to  think 
about  animals  not  merely  as  objects  of  study,  or  as 
curious  objects  stuck  prettily  about  the  world.  He 
complains  of  '  staring  eyes,  heads  continually  turned  from 
side  to  side,  starting  at  everything,  sometimes  bare  places 
on  the  shoulders,'  when  droves  of  cattle  go  by.  In  '  Trees 
about  To\\Ti '  he  describes  a  platform,  inaccessible  to  cats, 
for  the  feeding  of  birds  in  winter.  He  detests  the  bird- 
catchers  who  haunt  suburban  lanes.   '  Pity  it  is,'  he  adds, 

*  that  anyone  can  be  found  to  purchase  the  product  of 
their  brutality.'  Some  time  later,  in  '  The  Open  Air,' 
he  expresses  the  opinion  that  all  wild-life  should  be 
encouraged  and  protected  on  the  Thames,  '  morally  the 
property  of  the  greatest  city  in  the  world.'  And  yet  it 
is  twaddle,  he  thinks,  to  fine  a  boy  for  taking  a  bird's 
egg.  It  is  hard,  indeed,  to  say  on  what  principle  he 
thinks  protection  wise.  It  is  more  likely  that,  instead 
of  a  principle,  he  has  three  prejudices — love  of  individual 
freedom,  love  of  untouched  Nature,  and  hatred  of  '  pre- 
servation by  beadle  ';  and  they  are  very  strong,  for  though 
he  is  a  trout-fisher,  he  says  in  one  place  that  he  would 
be  glad  to  see  back  again  the  creatures  which  preserva- 
tion has  destroyed. 


CHAPTER  XI 

'WOOD  MAGIC  AND  'BEVIS' 

Twice  again  before  he  left  Surbiton  Jefferies  returned 
to  his  native  place  in  books  :  '  Wood  Magic  '  appeared  in 
1881,  '  Bevis  '  in  1882.  In  '  Wood  Magic  '  the  httle  boy 
Bevis  talks  with  the  birds,  the  animals,  and  the  butter- 
flies, with  the  wind  also  ;  and  they  answer  him,  often  in 
a  manner  implying  that  they  have  many  experiences, 
interests,  and  ideas  in  common  with  him.  Bevis,  petu- 
lant, adventurous,  impatient,  and  yet  dreamy,  in  the 
fields  about  Coate  Farm,  is  a  very  real  child  ;  and  to  some 
it  is  a  shock  to  pass  from  him  to  the  kingdoms  of  the 
animals,  with  their  human  ways,  their  councils,  their 
scandals,  their  plots,  their  wars  and  loves.  Perhaps  it 
is  a  little  surprising  that  Jefferies  should  apparently  have 
made  so  little  effort  to  present  the  lively  and  fascinating 
inhumanity  of  the  animals,  and  some  hint  of  the  difference 
between  their  motives  and  their  gods  and  ours.  It  is  less 
surprising  when  we  remember  that  he  is  writing  for  chil- 
dren and  as  a  child.  He  does  not  wantonly  condescend  to 
the  child,  but  returns  naturally  to  the  values  which  animals 
had  in  the  mingled  real  and  fantastic  of  his  own  child- 
hood. It  may  be  due  as  much  to  education  as  to  nature, 
but  it  is  true  that  the  child  is  heartily  anthropomorphic. 
I  have  heard  a  child  say,  like  Lucretius  before  him,  that 
the  sun  in  the  desert  spaces  of  the  sky  feeds  upon  the 
blue.  The  beasts  appear  to  be  changelings,  emancipated, 
to  their  gain  as  well  as  loss,  from  some  human  necessities. 
It  is  in  their  four-lcggedness,  or  their  wingedness,  or  their 
habit  of  staying  out  all  day  and  all  night,  that  they  seem 

156 


•  WOOD  MAGIC  '  AND  '  BE  VIS  '  157 

chiefly  to  differ  from  children.  Wings,  feathers,  fur,  tails, 
must  often  seem  as  mere  disguises  ;  the  lack  of  English 
speech  a  mere  lack,  as  it  were  an  accident.  In  '  Wood 
Magic  '  Jefferies,  or  Bevis,  makes  good  this  deficiency. 
If  he  is  very  far  from  saying  the  truest  things  about 
this  immeasurable  commonwealth  of  various  life  in  which 
we  have  yet  to  learn  our  offices,  he  does  give  animal  lives 
a  human  reality.  He  has  fallen,  in  fact,  into  just  such 
an  ambuscade  as  awaits  the  allegorist,  and  it  may  be 
said  of  his  birds  and  beasts,  as  a  rule,  what  was  said  by 
Coleridge  of  some  of  the  characters  in  '  Pilgrim's  Pro- 
gress ' — that  they  are  '  real  persons  with  nicknames.' 
More  could  not  be  expected  if  the  treatment  of  the  dogs 
at  Coate  Farm  was  like  that  of  Pan,  the  spaniel,  in 
*  Wood  Magic  ';  it  is  not  exceptionally  brutal,  but  it  is 
callous  and  off-hand. 

To  all  who  can  return  to  the  attitude  of  the  folk-story 
towards  animals,  regarding  them  as  curious,  often  clever, 
sometimes  malicious,  diminutive  human  beings,  the  book 
is  full  of  delight.  The  names  of  the  birds — Kapchack, 
the  magpie  ;  Tchink,  the  chaffinch  ;  Choo  Hoo,  the  wood- 
pigeon  ;  Cloctaw,  the  jackdaw  ;  Te-te,  the  tomtit — are 
charming,  and  it  was  a  stroke  of  genius  to  make  the 
starlings  the  royal  couriers.  Prettily,  too,  are  the  charac- 
teristic notes  of  the  birds  introduced  into  their  speeches  : 

'  "  I  too-whoo  should  like  to  know  if  Tchack-tchack  is 
coming,"  said  the  wood-pigeon.  .  .  . 

'  "  I  think,  think,  the  owl  is  very  stupid  not  to  begin," 
said  the  chaffinch.'* 

Nor  is  the  book  really  misleading.  It  does  not,  at 
least,  underestimate  the  animal's  intelligence  and  interest 
in  life.  If  it  humanizes,  it  also  throws  many  a  flash 
upon  Nature's  independence  of  humanity  ;  and  it  has 
the  great  merit  that  for  the  time  being  a  large  tract  of 
country,  hill  and  wood  and  field  and  water,  is  the  property 
of  magpies,  jays,  wood-pigeons,  hawks,  rooks,  and  missel- 
thrushes,  of  weasel,  squirrel,  fox,  and  rat,  instead  of 
*   Wood  Magic. 


158      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

squires  and  tradesmen ;  and  over  all  this  land,  in  defiance 
of  laws  of  trespass,  they  fly  and  run  and  creep,  careless 
of  men,  though  admitting  '  dear  little  Sir  Bevis  '  to  the 
council  because  he  has  power  over  fire  and  has  a  cannon. 
That  is  a  generous  conception,  with  many  delightful 
results.  And  if  the  birds  are  usually  human  beings 
with  beaks  and  wings,  one  of  the  grasshoppers  at  least 
is  pretty  clearly  Jefferies  himself,  answering  Bevis, 
who  has  asked  why  all  the  birds  go  down  to  bathe  on 
Midsummer  Day  : 

|,  '  "  Why  ?"  repeated  the  grasshopper  ;  "  I  never  heard 
anybody  say  anything  about  that  before.  There  is 
always  a  great  deal  of  talking  going  on,  for  the  trees  have 
nothing  else  to  do  but  to  gossip  with  each  other ;  but 
they  never  ask  why.  ..." 

*  "  Why  don't  you  hop  straight  ?"  said  Bevis 
presently.  .  .  . 

'  "  How  very  stupid  you  are  !"  said  the  grasshopper. 
"  If  you  go  straight,  of  course  you  can  only  see  just  what 
is  under  your  feet ;  but  if  you  go  first  this  way  and  then 
that,  then  you  see  everything.  You  are  nearly  as  silly 
as  the  ants,  who  never  see  anything  beautiful  all  their 
lives.  Be  sure  you  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  ants, 
Bevis  ;  they  are  a  mean,  wretched,  miserly  set,  quite 
contemptible  and  beneath  notice.  Now,  I  go  every- 
where aU  round  the  field,  and  spend  my  time  searching 
for  lovely  things  ;  sometimes  I  find  flowers,  and  some- 
times the  butterflies  come  down  into  the  grass  and  tell 
me  the  news  ;  and  I  am  so  fond  of  the  sunshine,  I  sing 
to  it  all  day  long.  Tell  me,  now,  is  there  anything  so 
beautiful  as  the  sunshine  and  the  blue  sky,  and  the  green 
grass,  and  the  velvet  and  blue  and  spotted  butterflies, 
and  the  trees  which  cast  such  a  pleasant  shadow  and 
talk  so  sweetly,  and  the  brook  which  is  always  running  ? 
I  should  like  to  listen  to  it  for  a  thousand  years."  '  * 

The  Reed  is  even  more  like  Jefferies  : 

'  There  is  no  why  at  all.     We  have  been  listening  to  the 
♦   Wood  Mai^c. 


•  WOOD  MAGIC  '  AND  '  BEVIS  '  159 

brook,  me  and  my  family,  for  ever  so  many  thousands  of 
years,  and  though  the  brook  has  been  talking  and  singing 
all  that  time,  I  never  heard  him  ask  why  about  anything. 
And  the  great  oak,  where  you  went  to  sleep,  has  been 
there,  goodness  me,  nobody  can  tell  how  long,  and  every 
one  of  his  leaves  (he  has  had  millions  of  them)  have  all 
been  talking,  but  not  one  of  them  ever  asked  why  ;  nor 
does  the  sun,  nor  the  stars,  which  I  see  every  night  shining 
in  the  clear  water  down  there,  so  that  I  am  quite  sure  there 
is  no  why  at  all.'* 

This  impression  of  the  great  age,  the  happiness,  the 
inhumanity  of  Nature  (or  the  unnaturalness  of  man),  is 
sometimes  made  with  the  force  of  a  proverb  or  a  folk-tale. 
The  irony,  too,  is  often  admirable,  and  I  seem  to  see  in 
Kapchack,  the  omnipotent  magpie,  the  crooked  shadow  of 
a  very  august  personage  : 

'  "  It  is,"  says  the  Toad,  "  a  very  dangerous  thing  to 
talk  about  Kapchack,  and  everybody  is  most  terribly 
afraid  of  him  ;  he  is  so  full  of  malice." 

*  "  Why  ever  do  they  let  him  be  King  ?"  said  Be  vis. 
"  I  would  not,  if  I  were  them.  Why  ever  do  they  put 
up  with  him,  and  his  cruelty  and  greediness  ?  I  will  tell 
the  thrush  and  the  starling  not  to  endure  him  any 
longer." 

'  "  Pooh  !  pooh  !"  said  the  Toad.  "  It  is  all  very  well 
for  you  to  say  so,  but  you  must  excuse  me  for  saying,  my 
dear  Sir  Bevis,  that  you  really  know  very  little  about  it. 
The  thrush  and  the  starling  would  not  understand  what 
you  meant.  The  thrush's  father  always  did  as  Kapchack 
told  him,  and  sang  his  praises,  as  I  told  you,  and  so  did 
his  grandfather,  and  his  great-grandfather,  and  all  his 
friends  and  relations,  these  years  and  years  past.  So 
that  now  the  thrushes  have  no  idea  of  there  being  no 
Kapchack.  .  .  ."  'f 

And  yet  this  Kapchack,  who  was  supposed  to  be  of  un- 
counted years,  was  really  only  a  distant  descendant  of  the 
original  Kapchack  ;  for  each  King  tore  out  an  eye  from 

*  Wood  Magic.  -f-  Ibid. 


i6o       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

his  eldest  son  to  make  him  hke  himself,  and  thus  ensure 
his  succession — the  King  never  dies — among  his  un- 
suspecting subjects. 

In  several  places  Jefferies'  strong  feeling  about  Fate  is 
expressed  with  a  quaint  intensity,  as  when  the  Squirrel 
tells  Bevis  : 

'  "  Elms  indeed  are  very  treacherous,  and  I  recommend 
you  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  them,  dear.  .  .  .  He  can 
wait  till  you  go  under  him,  and  then  drop  that  big  bough 
on  you.  He  has  had  that  bough  waiting  to  drop  on  some- 
body for  quite  ten  years.  .  .  .  Now,  the  reason  the  elms 
are  so  dangerous  is  because  they  will  wait  so  long  till 
somebody  passes.  Trees  can  do  a  great  deal,  I  can  tell 
you  ;  why,  I  have  known  a  tree,  when  it  could  not  drop  a 
bough,  fall  down  altogether  when  there  was  not  a  breath 
of  wind,  nor  any  lightning,  just  to  kill  a  cow  or  a  sheep, 
out  of  sheer  bad  temper."  '* 

The  flint  lies  in  wait  to  upset  a  cart  ;  the  water  lies  in 
wait,  '  and  if  they  stop  swimming  a  minute  they  will  be 
drowned  '  ;  and  '  if  you  climb  up  a  tree,  be  sure  and 
remember  to  hold  tight,  and  not  forget,  for  the  earth 
will  not  forget,  but  will  pull  you  down  to  it  thump, 
and  hurt  you  very  much.'t  Here,  too,  is  that  denial 
of  time,  born  of  his  mystic  trances,  which  was  later  to 
give  his  mind  such  a  range  backward  and  forward  in 
eternity  : 

'  "  My  dear,"  said  the  brook,  "  that  which  has  gone  by, 
whether  it  happened  a  second  since,  or  a  thousand  years 
since,  is  just  the  same  ;  there  is  no  real  division  betwixt 
you  and  the  past.  You  people  who  live  now  have  made 
up  all  sorts  of  stupid,  very  stupid,  stories,  dear  ;  I  hope 
you  will  not  believe  them  ;  they  tell  you  about  time  and  all 
that.  Now  there  is  no  such  thing  as  time,  Bevis,  my 
love  ;  there  never  was  any  time,  and  there  never  will  be  ; 
the  sun  laughs  at  it,  even  when  he  marks  it  on  the  sun- 
dial. Yesterday  was  just  a  second  ago,  and  so  was  ten 
thousand  years  since,  and  there  is  nothing  between  you 
♦  IVood  MagiC'  +  Ibid. 


*  WOOD  MAGIC  •  AND  '  BEVIS  '  i6i 

and  then  ;   there  is  no  wall  between  you  and  then — 

nothing  at  all,  dear "    And  the  brook  sang  so  low  and 

thoughtfully  that  Bevis  could  not  catch  what  he  said,  but 
the  tune  was  so  sweet,  and  soft,  and  sad  that  it  made  him 
keep  quite  still.  While  he  was  listening  the  kingfisher 
came  back  and  perched  on  the  hatch,  and  Bevis  saw  his 
ruddy  neck  and  his  blue  wings. 

'  "  There  is  nothing  between  you  and  then,"  the  brook 
began  again,  "  nothing  at  all,  dear  ;  only  some  stories 
which  are  not  true  ;  if  you  will  not  believe  me,  look  at  the 
sun  ;  but  you  cannot  look  at  the  sun,  darling,  it  shines  so 
bright.  It  shines  just  the  same,  as  bright  and  beautiful  ; 
cind  the  wind  blows  as  sweet  as  ever,  and  I  sparkle  and 
sing  just  the  same,  and  you  may  drink  me  if  you  like  ;  and 
the  grass  is  just  as  green  ;  and  the  stars  shine  at  night. 
Oh,  yes,  Bevis  dear,  we  are  all  here  just  the  same,  my 
love,  and  all  things  are  as  bright  and  beautiful  as  ten 
thousand  times  ten  thousand  years  ago,  which  is  no 
longer  since  than  a  second. 

'  "  But  your  own  people  have  gone  away  from  us — that 
is  their  own  fault.  I  cannot  think  why  they  should  do 
so  ;  they  have  gone  away  from  us,  and  they  are  no  longer 
happy.  Bevis,  they  cannot  understand  our  songs — they 
sing  stupid  songs  they  have  made  up  themselves,  and 
which  they  did  not  learn  of  us,  and  then,  because  they  are 
not  happy,  they  say  :  '  The  world  is  growing  old.'  But  it 
is  not  true,  Bevis,  the  world  is  not  old  ;  it  is  as  young  as 
ever  it  was.  Fling  me  a  leaf — and  now  another.  Do  not 
you  forget  me,  Bevis  ;  come  and  see  me  now  and  then,  and 
throw  twigs  to  me  and  splash  me."  '* 

The  quiet  tune  of  that  singing  brook  runs  through  all 
of  Jefferies'  books.  To  taste  of  its  flashing  water  is  a 
sacrament  in  '  The  Story  of  My  Heart  '  ;  the  recollection 
of  it  saddens  him  in  his  last  writing  because  he  fears  it  is 
not  heard  of  men  ;  not  to  hear  it  amidst  the  wild  question- 
ing, the  sad  despairs,  the  sadder  hopes,  of  the  auto- 
biography is  to  have  missed  the  joyous  heart  of  his  work. 

*   Wood  Magic. 

II 


i62      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

The  last  chapter,  where  Sir  Bevis  talks  with  the  wind, 
brings  back  the  same  thought  in  an  even  more  prophetic 
way.  The  wind  tells  him  of  the  man  in  the  tumulus  on 
the  hill  : 

'  "  He  died  about  a  minute  ago,  dear,  just  before  you 
came  up  the  hill.  If  you  were  to  ask  the  people  who  live 
in  the  houses,  where  they  will  not  let  me  in  (they  care- 
fully shut  out  the  sun  too),  they  would  tell  you  he  died 
thousands  of  years  ago  ;  but  they  are  foolish,  very  foolish. 
It  was  hardly  so  long  ago  as  yesterday.  Did  not  the 
brook  tell  you  all  about  that  ? 

'  "  Now  this  man,  and  all  his  people,  used  to  love  me 
and  drink  me  as  much  as  ever  they  could  all  day  long  and 
a  great  part  of  the  night,  and  when  they  died  they  still 
wanted  to  be  with  me,  and  so  they  were  all  buried  on  the 
tops  of  the  hills,  and  you  will  find  these  curious  little 
mounds  everywhere  on  the  ridges,  dear,  where  I  blow 
along.  There  I  come  to  them  still,  and  sing  through  the 
long  dry  grass,  and  rush  over  the  turf,  and  I  bring  the 
scent  of  the  clover  from  the  plain,  and  the  bees  come 
humming  along  upon  me.  The  sun  comes,  too,  and  the 
rain.  But  I  am  here  most ;  the  sun  only  shines  by  day, 
and  the  rain  only  comes  now  and  then. 

*  "  But  I  am  always  here,  day  and  night,  winter  and 
summer.  Drink  me  as  much  as  you  will,  you  cannot 
drink  me  away  ;  there  is  always  just  as  much  of  me  left. 
As  I  told  you,  the  people  who  were  buried  in  those  little 
mounds  used  to  drink  me,  and  oh  !  how  they  raced  along 
the  turf,  dear  ;  there  is  nobody  can  run  so  fast  now  ;  and 
they  leaped  and  danced,  and  sang  and  shouted.  I  loved 
them  as  I  love  you,  my  darling  ;  there,  sit  dowTi  and  rest 
on  the  thyme,  dear,  and  I  will  stroke  your  hair  and  sing 
to  you.  .  .  . 

'  "  There  never  was  a  yesterday,"  whispered  the  wind 
presently,  "  and  there  never  will  be  to-morrow.  It  is  all 
one  long  to-day.  When  the  man  in  the  hill  was  you  were 
too,  and  he  still  is  now  you  are  here  ;  but  of  these  things 
you  will  know  when  you  are  older,  that  is,  if  you  will  only 


•  WOOD  MAGIC  '  AND  '  BEVIS  '  163 

continue  to  drink  me.  Come,  dear,  let  us  race  again."  So 
the  two  went  on  and  came  to  a  hawthorn-bush,  and  Bevis, 
full  of  mischief  always,  tried  to  slip  away  from  the  wind 
round  the  bush,  but  the  wind  laughed  and  caught  him. 

'  A  little  farther  and  they  came  to  the  fosse  of  the  old 
camp.  Bevis  went  down  into  the  trench,  and  he  and  the 
wind  raced  round  along  it  as  fast  as  ever  they  could  go,  till 
presently  he  ran  up  out  of  it  on  the  hill,  and  there  was  the 
waggon  underneath  him,  with  the  load  well  piled  up  now. 
There  was  the  plain,  yellow  with  stubble  ;  the  hills  beyond 
it  and  the  blue  valley  just  the  same  as  he  had  left  it. 

'  As  Bevis  stood  and  looked  down,  the  wind  caressed 
him,  and  said  :  "  Good-bye,  darling,  I  am  going  yonder, 
straight  across  to  the  blue  valley  and  the  blue  sky,  where 
they  meet ;  but  I  shall  be  back  again  when  you  come  next 
time.  Now  remember,  my  dear,  to  drink  me — come  up 
here  and  drink  me." 

'  "  Shall  you  be  here  ?"  said  Bevis.  "  Are  you  quite 
sure  you  will  be  here  ?" 

'  "  Yes,"  said  the  wund,  "  I  shall  be  quite  certain  to  be 
here  ;  I  promise  you,  love,  I  will  never  go  quite  away. 
Promise  me  faithfully,  too,  that  you  will  come  up  and 
drink  me,  and  shout  and  race  and  be  happy." 

'  "  I  promise,"  said  Bevis,  beginning  to  go  down  the 
hill ;  "  good-bye,  jolly  old  Wind." 

'  "  Good-bye,  dearest,"  whispered  the  wind,  as  he  went 
across  out  towards  the  valley.  As  Bevis  went  down  the 
hill,  a  blue  harebell,  who  had  been  singing  farewell  to 
summer  all  the  morning,  called  to  him  and  asked  him  to 
gather  her  and  carry  her  home,  as  she  would  rather  go  with 
him  than  stay  now  autumn  was  near, 

'  Bevis  gathered  the  harebell,  and  ran  with  the  flower 
in  his  hand  down  the  hill,  and  as  he  ran  the  wild  thyme 
kissed  his  feet,  and  said  :  "  Come  again,  Bevis,  come 
again."  At  the  bottom  of  the  hill  the  waggon  was  loaded 
now  ;  so  they  lifted  him  up,  and  he  rode  home  on  the 
broad  back  of  the  leader.'* 

*   Wood  Ma^ic. 

II — 2 


i64      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

It  will  be  said  that  Jefferies  is  prolix,  and  so  he  is,  and 
most  so  in  his  best  work,  for  prolixity  is  part  of  the  result 
of  the  divine  impetus  which  took  him  to  his  highest  levels. 
Nor  is  it  wholly  a  fault,  since  to  uproot  it  would  be  to 
take  away  much  good  that  is  inseparable  from  it.  It  is  a 
fault  which  he  shares  with  three  other  countrymen,  all 
poets,  Drayton,  and  Wither,  and  William  Browne  of 
Tavistock ;  and  he  shares,  too,  their  hearty  sweet- 
ness. 

In  '  Bevis  :  The  Story  of  a  Boy  '  the  child  has  grown  to 
be  twelve  or  fourteen  years  old.  There  is  little  or  none  of 
the  fancy  in  it  which  fills  '  Wood  Magic  '  ;  there  is  no 
dwelling  with  pathos  or  humour  or  condescension  on 
boyhood,  but  a  reconstruction  of  great  tracts  of  it ;  the 
man  who  grew  out  of  Bevis  is  revealed  only  in  half  a  dozen 
passages,  where  he  describes  at  length  some  state  of  mind 
from  which  the  child  speedily  emerged,  or  where  an  adult, 
artistic  attitude  has  lured  him  into  the  picture  of  old 
'  Jumps,'  and  into  some  landscape  touches  a  little  out  of 
keeping  with  the  blitheness  of  the  main  part.  Though  his 
business  is  with  the  adventures  of  the  boys,  Bevis  and 
Mark,  he  cannot  help  showing  that  his  return  to  the 
period  of  childhood  is  not  due  simply  to  the  fact  that  he 
has  two  children  of  his  own.  He  has  begun  to  weigh  the 
significance  of  early  impressions,  to  connect  them  with 
later  ones.  Except  that  he  has  given  Coate  Farm  and 
its  owner  an  advance  to  greater  size  and  riches,  the 
surroundings  are  those  of  Jefferies'  own  boyhood.  The 
boy  Mark  is  his  younger  brother,  Harry  Jefferies,  a  robust 
and  daring  boy,  who  afterwards  went  to  America  and 
stayed  there.  Bevis,  masterful,  petulant,  impatient,  and 
dreamy,  is  Jefferies  in  the  main. 

In  the  first  chapter  Bevis  is  making  a  raft  out  of  a 
packing-case  ;  having  made  it,  he  and  Mark  take  turns 
in  poling  it  about  the  stream  ;  then,  tiring  of  it,  they 
discover  the  New  Sea  : 

'  "  Let's  go  round  the  Longpond,"  said  Bevis  ;  "  we 
have  never  been  quite  round  it." 


'  \\'00D  MAGIC  '  AND  '  BEVIS  '  165 

'  "  So  we  will,"  said  Mark.  "  But  we  shall  not  be  back 
to  dinner." 

*  "  As  if  travellers  ever  thought  of  dinner  !  Of  course, 
we  shall  take  our  pro\'isions  with  us." 

'  "  Let's  go  and  get  our  spears,"  said  Mark. 
'  "  Let's  take  Pan,"  said  Bevis. 

*  "  Where  is  your  old  compass  ?"  said  Mark. 

'  "  Oh,  I  know — and  I  must  make  a  map  ;  wait  a  minute. 
We  ought  to  have  a  medicine  chest  ;  the  savages  will 
worry  us  for  physic  ;  and  very  likely  we  shall  have  dreadful 
fevers." 

*  "  So  we  shall,  of  course  ;  but  perhaps  there  are  wonder- 
ful plants  to  cure  us,  and  we  know  them,  and  the  savages 
don't — there's  sorrel." 

'  "  Of  course,  and  we  can  nibble  some  hawthorn  leaf." 

'  "  Or  a  stalk  of  wheat." 

'  "  Or  some  watercress." 

'  "  Or  some  nuts." 

'  "  No,  certainly  not ;  they're  not  ripe,"  said  Bevis, 
"  and  unripe  fruit  is  very  dangerous  in  tropical  countries." 

'  "  W^e  ought  to  keep  a  diary,"  said  Mark.  "  When  we 
go  to  sleep,  who  shall  watch  first,  you  or  I  ?" 

'  "  We'll  light  a  fire,"  said  Bevis.  "  That  will  frighten 
the  lions  ;  they  will  glare  at  us,  but  they  can't  stand  fire. 
You  hit  them  on  the  head  with  a  burning  stick." 

'  So  they  went  in,  and  loaded  their  pockets  with  huge 
double  slices  of  bread-and-butter  done  up  in  paper,  apples, 
and  the  leg  of  a  roast  duck  from  the  pantry.  .  .  .'* 

And  in  or  on  Coate  Reservoir — or  the  *  Longpond,'  or 
*  New  Sea  ' — and  on  '  The  Plain,'  a  great  meadow  of  Day 
House  Farm  that  slopes  down  to  its  shores,  they  are  to  be 
found  all  through  the  book.  They  learn  to  swim  in  it,  they 
fish  in  it,  and  ride  on  catamarans,  and  after  fitting  sails  to  an 
old  blue  boat,  with  a  pool  of  bilge-water,  dead  insects,  nnd 
willow-leaves  at  the  bottom,  they  are  free  of  many  islands 
and  creeks.  They  organize  a  battle  of  Pharsalia  with  a 
crowd  of  other  boys  on  '  The  Plain.'  They  discover  the 
*  Bez'is  :  The  Story  of  a  Boy, 


1 66      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

unknown  island  of  New  Formosa,  make  a  gun  and  pro- 
vision their  island  hut,  and  there  maroon  themselves. 
There  is  nothing  incredible  or  on  a  fantastic  scale  in  the 
whole  book,  and  if  once  the  author's  enjoyment  had 
flagged,  the  narrative  must  have  gone  down  in  the  deeps  of 
dulness.  No  talk  could  be  more  real  than  the  talk  of  these 
boys ;  the  hurry,  confidence,  exuberance  are  to  the  life, 
with  no  graces,  no  heroism,  added.  The  description  of 
their  games,  their  quarrels,  their  plots,  their  fishing, 
swimming,  sailing,  skating,  shooting,  is  equally  real,  the 
observation  so  hearty  and  genuine  that  there  is  no  dull 
place.  They  want  to  cut  down  a  willow,  and  have 
wearied  of  the  axe  : 

*  "  I  know,"  said  Mark,  "  we  must  make  a  fire,  and 
burn  the  tree.  We  are  savages,  you  know,  and  that  is 
how  they  do  it." 

'  "  How  silly  you  are  !"  said  Bevis.  "  We  are  not 
savages,  and  I  shall  not  play  at  that.  We  have  just 
discovered  this  river,  and  we  are  going  do\vn  it  on  our 
raft ;  and  if  we  do  not  reach  some  place  to-night,  and 
build  a  fort,  very  likely  the  savages  will  shoot  us.  I 
believe  I  heard  one  shouting  just  now — there  was  some- 
thing rustled,  I  am  sure,  in  the  forest."  '* 

Bevis  and  Mark  have  gone  to  bed. 

*  Suddenly  Bevis  started  up  on  his  arm. 

*  "  Let's  have  a  war,"  he  said. 

'  "  That  would  be  first-rate,"  said  Mark  ;  "  and  have 
a  great  battle  !" 

'  "  An  awful  battle,"  said  Bevis  ;  "  the  biggest  and 
most  awful  ever  known." 

'  "  Like  Waterloo  ?" 

'  "  Pooh  !" 

'  "  Agincourt  ?" 

'  "  Pooh  !" 

*  "  Mai — Mai,"  said  Mark,  trying  to  think  of  Malplaquet. 
'  "  Oh,   more  than   anything  !"   said   Bevis.     "  Some- 
body will  have  to  write  a  history  about  it." 

*  Bevt's  :   The  Story  of  a  Boy. 


•  WOOD  MAGIC  '  AND  '  BEVIS  *  167 

*  "  Shall  we  wear  armour  ?" 

'  "  That  would  be  bow-and-arrow  time.  Bows  and 
arrows  don't  make  any  banging." 

'  "  No  more  they  do.  It  wants  lots  of  banging  and 
smoke,  else  it's  nothing." 

*  "  No  ;  only  chopping  and  sticking." 

*  "  And  smashing  and  yelling." 
'  "  No,  and  that's  nothing." 

*  "  Only  if  we  have  rifles,"  said  Mark  thoughtfully, 
"  you  see,  people  don't  see  one  another  ;  they  are  so  far 
off ;  and  nobody  stands  on  a  bridge  and  keeps  back  all  the 
enemy  all  by  himself." 

'  "  And  nobody  has  a  triumph  afterwards  with  elephants 
and  chariots,  and  paints  his  face  vermilion." 

'  "  Let's  have  bow-and-arrow  time,"  said  Mark ;  "  it's 
much  nicer  ;  and  you  sell  the  prisoners  for  slaves  and  get 
heaps  of  money,  and  do  just  as  you  like,  and  plough  up 
the  cities  that  don't  please  you." 

'  "  Much  nicer,"  said  Bevis.  "  You  very  often  kill  all 
the  lot,  and  there's  nothing  silly.  I  shall  be  King  Richard 
and  have  a  battle-axe — no,  let's  be  the  Normans  !" 

'  "  Wouldn't  King  Arthur  do  ?" 

*  "  No  ;  he  was  killed  ;  that  would  be  stupid.  I've  a 
great  mind  to  be  Charlemagne." 

'  "  Then  I  shall  be  Roland." 
'  "  No  ;  you  must  be  a  traitor." 

*  "  But  I  want  to  fight  on  your  side,"  said  Mark. 

'  "  How  many  are  there  we  can  get  to  make  up  the 
war  ?" 

*  They  consulted,  and  soon  reckoned  up  fourteen  or 
fifteen. 

'  "  It  will  be  jolly  awful,"  said  Mark.  "  There  will  be 
heaps  of  slain." 

Let's  have  Troy,"  said  Bevis. 

That's    too    slow,"    said    Mark.     "  It    lasted    ten 
years." 

'  "  Alexander  the  Great — let's  see,  whom  did  he 
fight  ?" 


i68      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

'  "  I  don't  know  ;  people  nobody  ever  heard  of — no- 
body particular — Indians  and  Persians,  and  all  that 
sort." 

'  "  I  know,"  said  Bevis  ;  "  of  course  !  I  know.  Of 
course,  I  shall  be  Julius  Caesar  !" 

'  "  And  I  shall  be  Mark  Antony." 

*  "  And  we  will  fight  Pompey." 

'  "  But  who  shall  be  Pompey  ?"  said  Mark. 

*  "  Pooh  !  there's  Bill,  and  Wat,  and  Ted  ;  anybody 
will  do  for  Pompey."  '* 

The  boys  '  bathed  in  air  and  sunbeam,  and  gathered 
years  of  health  like  flowers  from  the  field.'  Enterprise 
and  independence,  high  spirits,  love  of  the  open  air,  are  to 
be  felt,  if  not  learnt,  in  every  chapter  of  the  book.  As  a 
boy's  book — I  speak  under  correction  from  boys — it  has 
no  fault,  except,  perhaps,  that  the  exactness  and  abund- 
ance of  detail  is  disproportionate  in  a  work  that  has,  alas  ! 
to  end.  It  is  too  dramatic  for  an  epic,  and  its  movement 
is  confused,  not  to  speak  of  its  being  shamefully  inter- 
rupted by  the  description  of  an  anemone-leaf. 

It  is  full  of  evidence  of  Jefferies  not  only  as  a  boy,  but 
as  a  man.  It  marks  an  advance  from  the  genial,  easy 
treatment  of  the  Lucketts  in  '  Round  about  a  Great 
Estate  '  towards  the  minuteness  of  '  Amaryllis.'  The 
landscape  is  finer  than  in  any  of  his  earlier  books  —  for 
example,  the  sunrise  in  chapter  xlviii.,  where  he  says  : 
'  I  do  not  know  how  any  can  slumber  with  this  over  them. 
.  .  .  Such  moments  are  beyond  the  chronograph  and  any 
measure  of  wheels  ;  the  passing  of  one  cog  may  be  equal  to 
a  century,  for  the  mind  has  no  time.  .  .  .  What  an 
incredible  marvel  it  is  that  there  are  human  creatures  that 
slumber  threescore  and  ten  years,  and  look  down  at  the 
clods,  and  then  say  :  "  We  are  old  ;  we  have  lived  seventy 
years."  Seventy  years !  The  passing  of  one  cog  is 
longer  ;  seven  hundred  times  seventy  years  would  not 
equal  the  click  of  the  tiniest  cog  while  the  mind  was  living 
its  own  life.     Sleep  and  clods,  with  the  glory  of  the  earth, 

*  Bevis  :  The  Story  of  a  Boy. 


'  WOOD  MAGIC  '  AND  '  BEVIS  '  169 

and  the  sun,  and  the  sea,  and  the  endless  ether  around 
us  !  Incredible  marvel  this  sleep  and  clods  and  talk  of 
years.  .  .  .'* 

And  I  cannot  help  quoting  this  little  piece  : 

*  The  summer  shadow  hngered  on  the  dial,  the  sun 
slowed  his  pace,  pausing  on  his  way,  in  the  rich  light  the 
fruits  filled.  The  earth  had  Hstened  to  the  chorus  of  the 
birds,  and  as  they  ceased,  gave  them  their  meed  of  berry, 
seed,  and  grain.  There  was  no  labour  for  them  ;  their 
granaries  were  full.  Ethereal  gold  floated  about  the  hills, 
filling  their  hollows  to  the  brim  with  haze.  Like  a  grape 
the  air  was  ripe  and  luscious,  and  to  breathe  it  was  a 
drowsy  joy.  For  Circe  had  smoothed  her  garment 
and  slumbered,  and  the  very  sun  moved  slow.  .  .  . 

'  The  hazel  bushes  seemed  quite  vacant ;  only  one 
bird  passed  while  they  were  there,  and  that  was  a  robin, 
come  to  see  what  they  were^doing,  and  if  there  was  any- 
thing for  him.  In  the  butchery  of  the  Wars  of  the  Roses, 
that  such  flowers  should  be  stained  with  such  memories  ! 
It  is  certain  that  the  murderers  watched  the  robin  perched 
hard  by.  He  listened  to  the  voice  of  fair  Rosamond  ;  he 
was  at  the  tryst  when  Amy  Robsart  met  her  lover. 
Nothing  happens  in  the  fields  and  woods  without  a  robin. 'f 

Then,  again,  how  fine  the  description  of  the  swallows' 
flight  :  '  With  a  camel's-hair  tip  the  swallow  sweeps  the 
sky. . . .'  And  the  portrait  of '  Jumps  '  : '  His  years  pressed 
heavy  on  him — very  heavy,  like  a  huge  bundle  of  sticks  ; 
he  was  lost  under  his  age.  .  .  .'  That  exquisite  physical 
eye  does  not  lead  him  astray  ;  it  goes  straight  to  its  mark 
like  an  arrow,  but  an  arrow  fledged  with  feathers  from 
no  earthly  wing  ;  and  therefore  the  spiritual  effect  lives 
on  after  the  visual  effect  is  dimmed  or  lost. 

In  a  little  while  he  will  be  ready  for  '  The  Story  of  My 
Heart.'     He  has  already  tried  to  begin  it. 

*  Berts:  The  Story  0/ a  Boy,  t  ^btd. 


CHAPTER  XII 

ILLNESS— REMOVAL  TO  BRIGHTON— 'THE  BREEZE  ON 
BEACHY  HEAD" 

In  December,  1881,  Jefferies  fell  ill  of  fistula,  perhaps 
tubercular  in  origin,  and  during  the  next  twelve  months 
four  times  suffered  the  painful  operation  which  is  used  to 
cure  this  disease  ;  *  the  pain,'  he  wrote,  '  w^as  awful — 
like  lightning  through  the  brain  '*  ;  but  he  was  not  pros- 
trate or  unable  to  work  for  the  whole  of  this  time,  since 
in  the  middle  of  it  he  was  on  Exmoor.  The  wounds 
were  not  all  healed  until  January,  1883.  Within  a  month 
he  began  to  feel  a  gnawing  internal  pain  ;  it  was,  he  said, 
like  the  gnawing  of  a  rat  at  a  beam,  or  the  burning  of 
corrosive  sublimate.  He  feared  to  travel  by  train  lest 
he  should  throw  himself  out.  In  March,  1884,  he  still 
did  not  regard  the  illness  as  serious.  In  April,  1885,  he 
broke  down.  The  pain  was  found  to  be  due  to  ulceration, 
perhaps  also  tubercular,  of  the  small  intestine.  His 
strength  declined ;  the  wasting  of  his  body  was  extreme. 
He  was  starved  and  half  delirious,  and  months  of  the 
winter  had  been  spent  indoors.  In  June  he  could  only 
walk  two  hundred  yards.  In  August  it  tore  him  to  pieces, 
he  said,  to  walk  a  short  distance.  Suddenly,  in  Septem- 
ber, 1885,  he  went  down  as  if  shot  :  his  spine  '  seemed  to 
suddenly  snap  'f  ;  he  could  not  sit  or  lie  so  as  to  use  a  pen 
without  distress  ;  for  seven  months  he  was  helpless,  and 
in  December  was  so  weak  that  he  could  not  dress  himself. 
South  Africa  and  Algiers  had  been  suggested  to  him  for 

*  To  Mr.  C.  P.  Scott.  t  Ibid. 

170 


r 


SENTENCED  TO  DEATH  171 

a  winter  rest.  The  Royal  Literary  Fund  might  have 
borne  the  expense,  since  he  was  now  too  poor ;  but  he  re- 
fused such  help,  because  he  believed  that  the  fund  was 
maintained  by  dukes  and  marquises,  instead  of  authors 
and  journalists  and  publishers.  He  hated  it  for  himself 
as  he  hated  the  workhouse  for  the  agricultural  poor. 
'  The  idea  of  literature  being  patronized  in  these  days 
is  too  utterly  nauseous.'*  Perhaps,  he  said,  he  might 
think  differently  were  he  a  town-bom  man.  He  admitted 
that  only  a  stimulus  like  that  of  travel  or  sea-air  or  Schwal- 
bach  could  check  the  sinking.  He  had  to  be  content  with 
the  air  of  high-perched  Crowborough,  in  Sussex.  From 
there,  in  September,  1885,  he  wrote  :  '  I  cannot  do  any- 
thing. Whatever  I  wish  to  do,  it  seems  as  if  a  voice  said, 
"  No,  you  must  not  do  it."  Feebleness  forbids.  I  think 
I  would  like  a  good  walk.  "  No."  I  think  I  would  like  to 
write.  "  No."  I  think  I  would  like  to  rest.  "  No."  Always 
'  *  No  "to  everything.  Even  writing  this  letter  has  made  the 
spine  ache  almost  past  endurance.  I  cannot  convey  to 
you  how  miserable  it  is  to  be  impotent — to  feel  yourself 
full  of  ideas  and  work  and  to  be  unable  to  effect  it.  It 
is  absolutely  maddening.  Still,  the  autumn  comes  on, 
and  there  is  no  staying  it.'  A  visit  to  the  sea  at  Bexhill 
brought  him  some  ease,  but  he  had  an  attack  of  vomiting 
blood  soon  afterwards.  In  September,  1886,  he  described 
himself  as  having  been  a  complete  invalid  for  some  years. 
In  October,  he  said  that  for  five  years  he  had  not  slept 
properly.  A  fund  was  now  privately  raised,  and  in 
December,  1886,  he  was  at  Goring,  near  Worthing.  He 
studied  medical  books,  especially  on  tuberculosis,  and 
wrote  an  account  of  his  o\mi  illness.  His  diseases,  his 
'  distressing  neuralgia  and  other  nerve  sufferings,'  were 
caused  at  first,  he  suspected,  by  '  too  ceaseless  work.' 
'  There  are,'  he  says,  '  few — very  few,  perhaps  none 
living — who  have  come  through  such  a  series  of  diseases. 'f 
He  was  an  intractable  patient — prejudiced  against  the 
diet,  for  example,  that  was  imposed.  He  was  now  a 
♦  To  Mr.  C.  P.  Scott.  t  /^«^. 


172      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

skeleton.  He  had  little  money  but  what  was  given  to 
him.  Confined  indoors,  he  had  nothing  to  write.  He 
could  not  express  ideas  which  did  not  come  to  him  boldly. 
But  the  winter  of  1886-87  passed  more  easily.  In  January 
he  dictated  a  little.  In  February,  1887,  he  was  looking 
forward  to  the  warm  days  by  the  sea.  Then,  before  the 
end  of  March,  he  had  a  haemorrhage,  and  for  a  time  could 
not  even  dictate.  On  August  14,  1887,  he  died  of  ex- 
haustion and  clironic  fibroid  phthisis,  a  modified  form, 
in  which  the  tissue  resists  the  bacilli  by  a  fibrous  harden- 
ing of  the  lungs.  '  He  was,'  said  one  doctor,  '  a  very 
marked  case  of  hysteria  in  man  ' ;  another,  who  knew  his 
wTitings,  says  that  his  portrait  '  indicates  the  scrofulous 
diathesis,  with  its  singularly  impressionable  temperament, 
its  rapturous  enjoyment  of  a  delight,  and  its  intense 
susceptibility  to  a  pang.'  In  some  way,  not  yet  to  be 
explained,  the  mortal  pining  of  his  body  was  related  to 
the  intense  mental  vivacity  of  his  last  years.  '  Some  of  my 
best  work,'  he  writes,  'was  done  in  this  intense  agony.'* 
His  sense  of  colour  became  more  acute.  He  tells  us  that  in 
the  long,  hot  summer  days  of  1884  he  took  his  folding- 
stool  out  to  a  cabbage-field  near  Eltham  to  see  the  poppies, 
because  '  every  spot  of  colour  is  a  sort  of  food.'  He  never 
really  ceased  work,  and  it  was  after  the  beginning  of  his 
chain  of  diseases  in  1881  that  he  took  the  walks  by  which 
he  knew,  as  he  says  in  one  letter,  the  whole  of  the  Sussex 
Downs.  Many  of  his  essays  in  '  Field  and  Hedgerow  ' 
were  written  or  dictated  to  his  wife  during  the  worst  of 
his  illness.  '  Amaryllis  at  the  Fair  '  was  also  written  then. 
He  made  many  plans — in  May,  1885,  for  example  (when 
writing  a  short  note  '  made  his  pulse  beat  as  if  he  had  been 
using  a  sledgehammer  'f),  offering  a  novel  of  which  nothing 
is  known,  called  '  A  Bit  of  Human  Nature  ' ;  in  May,  1886 
(when  '  anyone  walking  across  the  room  heavily  hurt  him, 
the  jar  shaking  the  injured  intestine  '),  considering  the 
proposal  that  he  should  write  a  year-book  or  diary  of 
Nature.  In  his  last  year  he  undertook  to  write  an  intro- 
*  To  Mr.  C  P.  Scott.  t  Ibid. 


SENTENCED  TO  DEATH  173 

duction  to  the  '  Camelot '  edition  of  Gilbert  White's 
'  Selborne,'  and  finished  it  only  a  few  months  before 
his  death.  Both  parents  and  his  sister  and  two 
brothers  survived  him.  His  father  lived  to  be  eighty 
years  old,  his  mother  almost  as  old  ;  the  rest  are  still 
alive. 

Jefferies'  illness,  by  confining  his  physical  activity  and 
putting  a  keener  and  more  perilous  edge  upon  his  sensitive- 
ness, threw  him  back  still  more  upon  himself.  London 
had  probably  done  a  little  of  the  same  work  before. 
Leaving  the  familiar  \\'^iltshire  country,  he  had  to  forsake 
many  habits  of  mind  and  body,  and  to  descend  into  him- 
self more  and  more.  After  the  sundering  of  those  old 
associations  and  the  contact  with  London  came  the 
impulse  which  produced  the  '  Amateur  Poacher  '  and  its 
companion  books.  After  the  confinement,  the  misery, 
the  self-examination  of  his  illness  in  1881-83  came  the  long 
series  of  sensuous  and  impassioned  contemplative  essays, 
and  '  The  Story  of  My  Heart,'  '  The  Dewy  Mom,'  '  After 
London,'  and  '  Amaryllis  at  the  Fair.' 

In  1882  he  left  Surbiton  for  the  sea- air  of  West  Brighton, 
where  he  was  living,  at  '  Savernake,'  Lorna  Road,  in 
December,  and  probably  before  that.  The  last  two 
chapters  of '  Nature  near  London  '  were  composed  among 
these  new  surroundings.  He  was  now  once  again  within 
reach  of  perfectly  unspoilt  country,  above  all,  of  the  sea 
and  his  natal  air  of  the  Downs.  On  the  hills  above  Falmer, 
Plumpton,  and  Fulking  the  grass  was  heaped  with  tumuli ; 
the  camps  on  these  hills  would  recall  those  of  Liddington 
and  Barbury  ;  the  beauty  of  Mount  Caburn,  of  Ditchling, 
Firle,  Wolstanbury,  and  Chanctonbury  was  the  same  in 
kind  as  that  of  Hackpen,  Whitehorse  Hill,  Wanborough 
Downs,  Martinsell,  and  Tan  Hill ;  below  them,  on  the 
north,  lay  the  Weald,  not  unlike  the  low,  fat,  dairy  country 
of  North  Wiltshire,  and  on  the  south  the  sea,  of  which 
he  could  only  dream  at  Liddington.  He  had  known 
Sussex  and  the  South  Downs  before  in  childish  and  later 
visits  to  Eastbourne,  Hastings,  and  Lewes ;  and  it  was  at 


174      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

Pevensey,  in  1880,  that  he  made  the  seminal  notes  for 
'  The  Story  of  My  Heart.' 

As  he  drew  near  the  Downs  in  the  train  he  could  read 
no  more.  He  forgot  the  dust  of  London,  that  '  fiUs  the 
eyes,  and  blurs  the  vision  '  and  '  chokes  the  spirit.' 
'  There  is,'  he  wrote.  *  always  hope  in  the  hills  '  ;  '  hope 
dwells  there,  somewhere  mayhap  in  the  breeze,  in  the 
sward,  or  the  pale  cups  of  the  harebells.'  He  was  at 
home  again  on  the  Downs,  on  the  ancient  hill  and  its 
earthwork  '  alone  with  the  wind.'  The  sea-air,  the  sight 
of  the  waters,  the  wind,  the  holiday  voices  and  dresses  of 
Brighton  in  sunlight,  were  champagne  to  him.  In  '  Sea, 
Sky,  and  Down  '  he  saw  the  sea  '  reflected  in  the  plate- 
glass  windows  of  the  street,  .  .  .  covering  over  the  golden 
bracelets  and  jewellery  with  a  moving  picture  of  the 
silvery  waves.'  He  used  to  walk  up  to  the  station  to  see 
the  happy,  beautiful,  jolly  people  arriving,  and  the  cabs 
*  overgrown  with  luggage  like  huge  barnacles,'  and  he 
'  left  feeling  better.'  He  liked  the  dry  bright  air,  in  which 
the  liveliest  colours  were  inlaid  ;  '  no  tint  is  too  bright — 
scarlet,  cardinal,  anything  the  imagination  fancies  '  ;  the 
'  pleasant  lines  of  people  chatting,  the  human  sunshine  of 
laughter  '  ;  the  fishermen  ;  the  women  riding  ;  the  opulence 
of  it  all ;  the  old  houses.  '  This,'  he  says,  '  is  the  land  of 
health.'  Sea,  the  air  of  the  hills,  and  sunshine  are 
'  medicines  that  by  degrees  strengthen  not  only  the  body, 
but  the  unquiet  mind.'  And  the  first  papers  written  in 
Sussex,  those  included  in  '  Nature  near  London,'  reflect  a 
larger  enjoyment  than  any  of  those  about  Surrey.  In 
'  The  South  Down  Shepherd  '  he  might  have  been  on  his 
own  Downs  again.  He  is  happy  to  see  the  ancient 
shepherd  and  talk  of  the  crooks — '  each  village-made 
crook  had  an  individuality  " — of  the  hares  and  foxes  and 
sheep-dog  ;  to  see  the  oxen  ploughing  with  an  ancient 
plough  of  a  form  slowly  wrought  out  and  as  delicate  as  a 
plant — '  in  these  curved  lines  and  smoothness,  in  this 
perfect  adaptability  of  means  to  end,  there  is  the  spirit  of 
art  showing  itself,  not  with  colour  or  crayon,  but  working 


SENTENCED  TO  DEATH  175 

in  tangible  material  substance.'  The  same  thoughts  came 
to  him  as  he  looked  at  the  old  pottery  in  the  Brighton 
Museum.  '  The  Breeze  on  Beachy  Head  '  has  something 
of  the  joy  of  *  The  Poacher,'  and  also  a  deeper  one  and  a 
humanity  more  wide  : 

'  The  waves  coming  round  the  promontory  before  the 
west  wind  still  give  the  idea  of  a  flowing  stream,  as  they 
did  in  Homer's  days.  Here,  beneath  the  cliff,  standing 
where  beach  and  sand  meet,  it  is  still ;  the  wind  passes 
six  hundred  feet  overhead.  But  yonder,  every  larger 
wave  rolling  before  the  breeze  breaks  over  the  rocks  ;  a 
white  line  of  spray  rushes  along  them,  gleaming  in  the 
sunshine  ;  for  a  moment  the  dark  rock-wall  disappears,  till 
the  spray  sinks. 

'  The  sea  seems  higher  than  the  spot  where  I  stand,  its 
surface  on  a  higher  level — raised  like  a  green  mound — as 
if  it  would  burst  in  and  occupy  the  space  up  to  the  foot 
of  the  cliff  in  a  moment.  It  will  not  do  so,  I  know  ;  but 
there  is  an  infinite  possibility  about  the  sea  ;  it  may  do 
what  it  is  not  recorded  to  have  done.  It  is  not  to  be 
ordered  ;  it  may  overleap  the  bounds  human  observation 
has  fixed  for  it.  It  has  a  potency  unfathomable.  There 
is  still  something  in  it  not  quite  grasped  and  understood — 
something  still  to  be  discovered — a  mystery. 

'  So  the  white  spray  rushes  along  the  low  broken  wall 
of  rocks,  the  sun  gleams  on  the  flying  fragments  of  the 
wave,  again  it  sinks,  and  the  rhythmic  motion  holds  the 
mind,  as  an  invisible  force  holds  back  the  tide.  A  faith  of 
expectancy,  a  sense  that  something  may  drift  up  from  the 
unknown,  a  large  belief  in  the  unseen  resources  of  the 
endless  space  out  yonder,  soothes  the  mind  with  dreamy 
hope. 

'  The  little  rules  and  little  experiences,  all  the  petty 
ways  of  narrow  life,  are  shut  off  behind  by  the  ponderous 
and  impassable  cliff ;  as  if  we  had  dwelt  in  the  dim  light 
of  a  cave,  but  coming  out  at  last  to  look  at  the  sun,  a  great 
stone  had  fallen  and  closed  the  entrance,  so  that  there  was 
no  return  to  the  shadow.     The  impassable  precipice  shuts 


176      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

off  our  former  selves  of  yesterday,  forcing  us  to  look  out 
over  the  sea  only,  or  up  to  the  deeper  heaven. 

'  These  breadths  draw  out  the  soul ;  we  feel  that  we 
have  wider  thoughts  than  we  know  ;  the  soul  has  been 
living,  as  it  were,  in  a  nutshell,  all  unaware  of  its  own 
power,  and  now  suddenly  finds  freedom  in  the  sun  and 
sky.  Straight,  as  if  sawn  down  from  turf  to  beach,  the 
cliff  shuts  off  the  human  world,  for  the  sea  knows  no 
time  and  no  era  ;  you  cannot  tell  what  century  it  is  from 
the  face  of  the  sea.  A  Roman  trireme  suddenly  rounding 
the  white  edge-line  of  chalk,  borne  on  wind  and  oar  from 
the  Isle  of  Wight  towards  the  grey  castle  at  Pevensey 
(already  old  in  olden  days),  would  not  seem  strange. 
What  wonder  could  surprise  us  coming  from  the  wonderful 
sea  ?'* 

'  The  impassable  precipice  shuts  off  our  former  selves 
of  yesterday.'  He  sniffs  immortal  airs  on  the  open  road 
ahead. 

*  '  The  Breeze  on  Beachy  Head,'  Nature  near  London. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

'THE  STORY  OF  MY  HEART' 

On  June  22,  1883,  Jefferies  wrote*  to  say  that  he  had 
just  finished  writing  a  book  about  which  he  had  been 
meditating  seventeen  years  ;  he  had  called  it '  The  Story 
of  My  Heart  :  An  Autobiography.'  He  was  then  living 
at  West  Brighton.  The  sea  had  once  before  strengthened 
his  original  intention  to  write  down  his  experiences  ;  he 
tried  or  resolved  to  try  again,  but  vainly.  In  1880,  once 
more  by  the  sea,  at  Pevensey,  '  under  happy  circum- 
stances,' he  made  a  few  notes  which  he  kept.  He  was 
then  thirty-two  or  thirty-three — at  the  age  when  others, 
such  as  Whitman,  have  received  their  illumination.  Two 
years  later  he  began  to  write  the  book  which  was  now 
finished. 

He  had  taken  a  long  journey  since  first,  when  he 
was  eighteen,  '  an  inner  and  esoteric  meaning  '  began  to 
come  to  him  '  from  all  the  visible  universe,'  and  '  inde- 
finable aspirations  filled  him  '  as  a  result  of  his  intense 
moments  of  oneness  with  Nature  on  the  Downs.  Those 
and  the  even  earlier  experiences  were  brief  momentary 
ravishments  of  his  daily  life  as  student,  sportsman,  and 
reporter.  Had  they  been  of  long  duration  and  frequent 
occurrence,  it  seems  likely  that  they  would  have  had  a 
more  immediate  influence  on  his  life  and  writing,  and  that 
they  would  have  become  connected  with  his  piety.  As 
he  describes  those  moments  in  his  maturity  they  are 
elusive  ;  to  the  writer  of  the  letters  to  the  Times  they  can 

*  To  Mr.  C.  J.  Longman. 

177  12 


178      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

hardly  have  reached  the  state  of  words.  Here  and  there, 
as  in  the  novels  and  at  the  end  of  '  The  Poacher,'  are 
passages  which  may  be  attributed  to  this  spiritual  side  of 
his  life.  But  the  mood,  the  very  vocabulary,  of  these 
early  country  books  was  against  the  revelation  of  which 
he  was  in  search  ;  the  matter  of  those  books  could  be  the 
subject  of  everyday  talk,  while  it  is  likely  that  he  said  not 
a  word  of  his  inner  life  until  he  wrote  '  The  Story  of  My 
Heart.'  The  form  of  fiction,  however,  in  '  Wood  Magic  ' 
and  in  '  Bevis  '  put  Jefferies  more  at  his  ease,  and  he 
could  say  of  Bevis  what  he  could  not  yet  say  of  himself. 
But  now,  at  the  age  of  thirty-four,  with  five  more  years  to 
die  in — disease  already  strong  upon  his  body,  yet  power- 
less to  deny  him  the  pleasure  of  the  north  wind  on  the 
hills — he  was  not  shy  of  speaking  out  in  his  own  person, 
of  going  back  to  the  fields  of  his  youth  to  glean  where 
he  had  already  reaped  and  harvested — fairy  gleanings 
gathered  so  late  by  the  ghost  of  the  reaper. 

By  this  time  he  was  a  man  of  much  irregular  reading  in 
poetry,  science,  and  philosophy.  If  we  may  judge  from 
his  liking  for  Dryden,  Longfellow,  and  translations  from 
the  '  Odyssey  '  and  '  Faust,'  he  had  no  very  strong  taste 
for  the  form  of  poetry,  though  I  have  heard  that  he  read, 
more  widely  than  was  then  common,  the  Elizabethan 
song-writers.  The  old  ballads  he  certainly  loved.  He 
praised  Addison  almost  alone  among  older  prose-writers  ; 
among  contemporaries,  he  admired  Stevenson,  Bret  Harte, 
and  Charles  Reade,  but  not  Dickens.  Of  books  belonging 
to  him  I  have  seen  '  The  Assemblies  of  Al  Hariri  '  (trans- 
lated by  Chenery),  '  Bhagavad  Gita  '  (translated  by  J. 
Cockburn  Thomson),  Swinburne's  '  Poems  and  Ballads  * 
(1871)  ;  translations  of  the  '  Iliad,'  the  Greek  Minor 
Poets  and  the  Anthology,  and  Persius  ;  and  Percy's 
'  Reliques.'  These  were  the  remains  of  a  collection  which 
began  to  dwindle  long  before  his  death.  He  read  less  and 
less  as  time  went  on.  '  The  glamour  of  modern  science 
and  discoveries,'  he  tells  us,  '  faded  away.'  But,  in  any 
case,  he  was  perhaps  always  an  erratic  reader  who  knew 


'  THE  STORY  OF  MY  HEART  '  179 

what  he  Hked,  and  found  his  food  in  the  oddest  ways,  yet 
was  Ukely  to  go  far  astray.  His  judgment,  too,  was 
uncertain  ;  in  one  of  his  letters*  he  complains  of  a 
reviewer  (not  of  one  of  his  own  books)  in  the  Athencsum 
simply  on  the  ground  that  pubUc  opinion  was  all  against 
him.  He  had,  however,  by  the  constant  necessity  of 
moulding  language  to  fit  a  more  and  more  subtle  subject- 
matter,  become  the  master — the  still  rather  uncertain 
master — of  an  easy,  delicate,  often  sweet  and,  without 
extravagance,  luxuriant  style.  It  was  not,  I  think, 
developed  by  much  conscious  effort,  but  grew  to  his  use 
like  the  handle  of  a  walking-stick.  It  is  at  times  grossly 
careless  in  construction  and  in  sound,  probably  because 
he  often  wrote  in  haste  or  in  an  uneasy  state.  But, 
given  an  entirely  suitable  subject,  he  wrote  with  a  natural 
fineness  and  richness  and  a  carelessness,  too,  like  the 
blackbird's  singing.  He  rises  and  falls  with  his  subject 
more  than  most  writers,  for  his  style  was  not  a  garment 
in  which  he  clothed  everything  indiscriminately.  Reading 
had  given  him  his  vocabulary,  but  no  one  model.  Parts 
of  '  The  Poacher  '  and  '  A  Great  Estate  '  could  not  be 
bettered,  but  his  style  afterwards  left  what  seemed  the 
maturity  of  those  books,  and  went  through  another 
apprenticeship,  and  absorbed  new  orders  of  sensations  and 
emotions.  His  eyesight  won  fields  unknown  to  him 
before,  both  out  of  doors  and  in  the  British  Museum  and 
the  picture-galleries.  Of  his  peculiar  sensitiveness — 
though  to  which  of  the  senses  it  is  to  be  referred  I  do  not 
know — he  gives  an  instance  in  the  migratory  impulse  men- 
tioned in  '  January  in  the  Sussex  Woods.'  *  I  am,'  he 
writes,  *  personally  subject  twice  a  year  to  the  migratory 
impulse.  I  feel  it  in  spring  and  autumn,  say  about 
March,  when  the  leaves  begin  to  appear,  and  again  as  the 
corn  is  carried,  and  most  strongly  as  the  fields  are  left  in 
stubble.  I  have  felt  it  every  year  since  boyhood,  often  so 
powerfully  as  to  be  quite  unable  to  resist  it.  Go  I  must, 
and  go  I  do,  somewhere  ;  if  I  do  not,  I  am  soon  unwell 

*  To  Mr.  C  J.  Longman. 

12 — 2 


i8o      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

The  general  idea  of  direction  is  southerly,  both  spring  and 
autumn  ;  no  doubt  the  reason  is  because  this  is  a  northern 
country.'* 

But  five  fine  senses  are  not  the  sum  even  of  a  sensual 
man,  and  in  Jefferies  they  are  humble  in  the  service  of  the 
soul  that  apprehends  the  beauty  of  life  and  the  bitterness 
because  that  must  fade  or  die  by  the  hand  of  Fate  or  Time 
or  Man  himself.  His  love  and  enjoyment  of  beauty,  far 
more  than  his  ill-health  and  pain,  were  the  causes  of  his 
sorrowfulness.  Of  melancholy  he  has  little  ;  for,  alike  in 
sorrow  and  in  joy,  he  is  keenly  alive,  and  in  both  revolting 
against  the  alterable  conditions  of  hfe,  and  penetrating 
them  to  see  the  beauty  at  the  heart.  Yet  by  this  time  his 
ill-health  was  assured.  I  have  heard  that  in  his  sleeplessness 
he  was  known  to  ring  all  the  bells  of  the  house  in  which  he 
lay,  unable  to  bear  the  isolation  among  those  who  slept. 
Four  years  before  the  end  he  looked  '  near  death.' 

He  was  now  in  the  main  a  poet,  in  whose  composition 
there  is  a  naturalist,  a  sportsman,  a  curious  minded  and 
solitary  countryman,  as  weU  as  a  lover  and  interpreter  of 
life.  He  could  still  be  only  one  of  these  things  at  a  time,  as 
in  '  Red  Deer,'  where  he  was  a  mere  sportsman.  When  he 
refused  even  to  consider  the  possibility  that  there  could 
be  anything  better  than  fine  white  flour  or  a  feather-bed  ; 
when  he  laughed  at  hygiene,  or  philanthropy,  or  temper- 
ance, or  other  '  fads,'  he  was  a  countryman  preserving  his 
cottage  ideas.  But  more  and  more  these  portions  of  him 
took  a  due  and  unobserved  place  in  the  poet,  the  larger 
man  who,  though  exquisitely  sensitive,  had  no  mere 
delicacy  and  rejected  no  part  of  life  in  man  or  nature, 
country  or  town.  His  taste  was  for  quiet  and  seclusion 
and  the  things  that  are  old — '  give  me  the  old  road,  the 
same  flowers  ' — but  that  could  never  long  restrain  him 
from  the  long  ranging  thoughts  which  soon  put  away 
these  things  from  him  for  ever.  The  old  world  of  '  fear 
God,  honour  the  pheasant,  and  damn  the  rest  '  became 
dim   to   him.     Something   he   may   have   lost,   but   the 

*  'January  in  the  Sussex  Woods  '  in  Life  of  the  Fields. 


'THE  STORY  OF  MY  HEART'  i8i 

neighbourhood  of  pheasants,  at  least,  does  men  little  good. 
I  knew  a  parish  of  10,397  souls,  of  which  10,000  were 
pheasants  and  the  rest  human  beings,  so  miserable — 
except  seventeen  of  them  at  the  big  house  and  rectory — 
that  they  were  not  even  worth  shooting  or,  as  far  as  was 
known,  eating.  Jefferies  was  no  longer  capable  of  taking 
just  an  intelligent  party  view  of  things,  of  remaining  an 
observer  and  a  gossip  only,  of  leaving  at  the  bottom  of 
the  well  the  thoughts  peculiarly  his  own  and  choosing 
instead  things  as  they  are,  and  have  been,  and  evermore 
shall  be.  For  at  length  the  '  superstitions  and  tradition^ 
acquired  compulsorily  in  childhood  '*  fell  away  and  dis 
appeared,  and  he  was  free  to  do  what  he  could  by  himself, 
a  lonely,  an  extremely  isolated,  man. 

'  The  Story  of  My  Heart  '  is  a  confession,  a  description, 
of  the  stages  by  which  he  reached  the  ideas  of  his  later  life. 
He  has  erased  from  his  mind  the  traditions  and  learning 
of  the  past  ages,  and  stands  '  face  to  face  with  the  un- 
known.' His  general  aim  is  '  to  free  thought  from  every 
trammel,  with  the  view  of  its  entering  upon  another  and 
larger  series  of  ideas  than  those  which  have  occupied  the 
brain  of  man  so  many  years.  He  believes  that  there  is  a 
whole  world  of  ideas  outside  and  beyond  those  which  now 
exercise  us.' 

As  a  child  he  used  to  go  away  by  himself,  if  only  for 
two  or  three  minutes,  '  to  think  unchecked.'  '  Involun- 
tarily,' he  says,  '  I  drew  a  long  breath,  then  I  breathed 
slowly.  My  thought,  or  inner  consciousness,  went  up 
through  the  illumined  sky,  and  I  was  lost  in  a  moment 
of  exaltation.  This  only  lasted  a  very  short  time, 
perhaps  only  part  of  a  second,  and  while  it  lasted  there 
was  no  formulated  wish.'  There  came,  too,  '  a  deep, 
strong,  and  sensuous  enjoyment  of  the  beautiful  green 
earth,  the  beautiful  sky  and  sun,'  and  the  thought  *  that 
I  might  be  like  this  ;  that  I  might  have  the  inner  meaning 
of  the  sun,  the  light,  the  earth,  the  trees  and  grass, 
translated  into  some  growth  of  excellence  in  myself,  both 

*  The  Story  of  My  Heart. 


i82      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

of  body  and  of  mind  ;  greater  perfection  of  physique, 
greater  perfection  of  mind  and  soul ;  that  I  might  be 
higher  in  myself.'* 

Later  still,  he  walked  along  the  Marlborough  road  to 
the  fir-trees,  where  he  could  '  think  a  moment '  with  his 
morning  soul  and  eyes  untroubled  by  recollection  of  irrele- 
vant daily  things.  Such  experiences — the  being  absorbed 
and  the  exaltation — differently  interpreted,  or  fitted  into 
different  schemes  of  life,  or  neglected,  or  allowed  to 
leaven  life  by  hidden  ways,  must  come  to  many.  A 
sense  of  humour  or  much  social  intercourse  may  easily 
subdue  them  or  compel  them  to  work  underground. 
Jefferies,  perhaps  because  they  belonged  to  the  moments 
when  he  was  most  remote  from  the  painful  life  of 
journalism  or  of  his  father's  house,  and  because  there 
was  no  one  with  whom  he  could  share  or  illuminate 
them,  cherished  and  dwelt  upon  them.  Except  in  his 
ready  and  devout  acceptance  of  these  spiritual  intima- 
tions, he  resembles  Behmen  with  his  deep,  inward 
ecstasy  ;  and  Behmen  bore  his  mysticism  about  with 
him  in  silence  for  twelve  years.  The  mystic  teachers 
lucidly  described  in  Mr.  Edward  Carpenter's  '  Adam's 
Peak  to  Elephanta  '  attain  to  a  similar  '  universal  or 
cosmic  consciousness.'  They  aim  '  by  will  to  surrender 
the  will ;  by  determination  and  concentration  to  press 
inward  and  upward  to  that  portion  of  one's  being  which 
belongs  to  the  universal ';  they  consciously,  as  Jefferies 
unconsciously,  use  the  long  breath,  followed  by  slow 
breathing,  as  a  physical  introduction  to  the  mystic  state. 
Jefferies  also  at  times  concentrated  himself  deliberately, 
driving  away  '  by  continued  will '  all  sense  of  outward 
appearances.  The  novelty  and  strangeness  of  the  mystic 
state  cause  what  are  considered  '  phantasmal  trains  of 
delusive  speculation  '  in  some  minds.  Tennyson,  again, 
by  the  repetition  of  his  own  name,  reached  a  trance  in 
which  *  the  individual  seemed  to  dissolve  and  fade  away 
into  boundless  being  .  .  .  when  death  was  an  almost 
*  The  Story  of  My  Heart. 


'THE  STORY  OF  MY  HEART'  183 

laughable  impossibility,  the  loss  of  personality  (if  so  it 
were)  seeming  no  extinction,  but  the  only  true  life.'  In 
Tennyson  the  influence  of  such  trances  must  be  sought 
in  his  religious  ideas  and  in  whatever  there  is  beyond 
the  visible  and  tangible  in  his  handling  of  Nature. 
One  of  the  youngest  and  most  interesting  of  poets  now 
alive — Mr.  Lascelles  Abercrombie — has  described  the 
trance  '  upon  a  hill,  alone,'  almost  in  the  words  of 
Jefferies  : 

' .  .  .  And  then  suddenly, — 

While  perhaps  twice  my  heart  was  dutiful 

To  send  my  blood  upon  its  little  race,— 

I  was  exalted  above  surety, 

And  out  of  time  did  fall.'  * 

Other  poets  have  had  similar  experiences,  if  we  may 
judge  by  results.  A  few  have  preserved  some  traces  of 
the  moments  themselves.  Shelley's  '  May  Morning,' 
for  example,  '  when  I  walked  forth  upon  the  glittering 
grass,'  may  have  brought  him  some  such  exaltation. 
Wordsworth's  '  Ode  '  is  in  part  a  recollection  of  experi- 
ences of  this  kind  interpreted  by  him  as  '  intimations  of 
immortality.'  Myers  plainly  called  genius  '  a  kind  of 
exalted  but  undeveloped  clairvoyance  ';  and  something 
like  this  trance  happens  to  many  who  have  not  artistic 
genius ;  but  the  effect,  in  solution,  whether  in  literature 
or  art  or  conduct,  may  not  be  easily  perceptible,  and  the 
extreme  brevity  of  the  entrancement  may  help  it  to  be 
ignored. 

To  Jefferies,  then,  we  have  to  be  grateful  for  describing 
so  vividly  a  matter  of  which  the  evidence  cannot  be  too 
great.  Lying  on  the  turf  of  Liddington  Hill,  he  was 
quite  alone,  having  shaken  off  '  the  petty  circumstances 
and  the  annoyances  of  existence  '  during  the  climb 
through  '  rich  pure  air  '  up  the  steep  slope. 

'  I  was  utterly  alone  with  the  sun  and  the  earth. 
Lying  down  on  the  grass,  I  spoke  in  my  soul  to  the  earth, 
the  sun,  the  air,  and  the  distant  sea  far  beyond  sight.     I 

"  Poems  and  Interludes  (John  Lane). 


i84       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

thought  of  the  earth's  firmness — I  felt  it  bear  me  up  ; 
through  the  grassy  couch  there  came  an  influence  as  if 
I  could  feel  the  great  earth  speaking  to  me.  I  thought 
of  the  wandering  air — its  pureness,  which  is  its  beauty  ; 
the  air  touched  me  and  gave  me  something  of  itself.  I 
spoke  to  the  sea  :  though  so  far,  in  my  mind  I  saw  it, 
green  at  the  rim  of  the  earth  and  blue  in  deeper  ocean  ; 
I  desired  to  have  its  strength,  its  mj^stery  and  glory. 
Then  I  addressed  the  sun,  desiring  the  soul  equivalent 
of  his  light  and  brilliance,  his  endurance  and  unwearied 
race.  I  turned  to  the  blue  heaven  over,  gazing  into  its 
depth,  inhaling  its  exquisite  colour  and  sweetness.  The 
rich  blue  of  the  unattainable  flower  of  the  sky  drew  my 
soul  towards  it,  and  there  it  rested,  for  pure  colour  is 
rest  of  heart.  By  all  these  I  prayed  ;  I  felt  an  emotion 
of  the  soul  beyond  all  definition  ;  prayer  is  a  puny  thing 
to  it,  and  the  word  is  a  rude  sign  to  the  feeling,  but  I 
know  no  other. 

'By  the  blue  heaven,  by  the  rolling  sun  bursting  through 
untrodden  space,  a  new  ocean  of  ether  every  day  un- 
veiled. By  the  fresh  and  wandering  air  encompassing 
the  world  ;  by  the  sea  sounding  on  the  shore — the  green 
sea  white-flecked  at  the  margin  and  the  deep  ocean  ;  by 
the  strong  earth  under  me.  Then,  returning,  I  prayed 
by  the  sweet  thyme,  whose  little  flowers  I  touched  with 
my  hand  ;  by  the  slender  grass  ;  by  the  crumble  of  dry 
chalky  earth  I  took  up  and  let  fall  through  my  fingers. 
Touching  the  crumble  of  earth,  the  blade  of  grass,  the 
thyme  flower,  breathing  the  earth-encircling  air,  thinking 
of  the  sea  and  the  sky,  holding  out  my  hand  for  the  sun- 
beams to  touch  it,  prone  on  the  sward  in  token  of  deep 
reverence,  thus  I  prayed  that  I  might  touch  to  the  un- 
utterable existence  infinitely  higher  than  deity. 

'  With  all  the  intensity  of  feeling  which  exalted  me,  all 
the  intense  communion  I  held  with  the  earth,  the  sun  and 
sky,  the  stars  hidden  by  the  light,  with  the  ocean — in  no 
manner  can  the  thrilling  depth  of  these  feelings  be  written 
— with  these  I  prayed,  as  if  they  were  the  keys  of  an 


'THE  STORY  OF  MY  HEART'  185 

instrument,  of  an  organ,  with  which  I  swelled  forth  the 
notes  of  my  soul,  redoubling  my  own  voice  by  their 
power.  The  great  sun  burning  with  hght  ;  the  strong 
earth,  dear  earth  ;  the  warm  sky  ;  the  pure  air  ;  the 
thought  of  ocean  ;  the  inexpressible  beauty  of  all  filled 
me  with  a  rapture,  an  ecstasy,  an  infiatus.  With  this 
inflatus,  too,  I  prayed.  Next  to  myself  I  came  and  re- 
called myself,  my  bodily  existence.  I  held  out  my  hand, 
the  sunlight  gleamed  on  the  skin  and  the  iridescent  nails  ; 
I  recalled  the  mystery  and  beauty  of  the  flesh.  I  thought 
of  the  mind  with  which  I  could  see  the  ocean  sixty  miles 
distant,  and  gather  to  myself  its  glory.  I  thought  of  my 
inner  existence,  that  consciousness  which  is  called  the 
soul.  These,  that  is,  myself — I  threw  into  the  balance 
to  weigh  the  prayer  the  heavier.  My  strength  of  body, 
mind  and  soul,  I  flung  into  it  ;  I  put  forth  my  strength  ; 
I  wrestled  and  laboured,  and  toiled  in  might  of  prayer. 
The  prayer,  this  soul-emotion  was  in  itself — not  for  an 
object — it  was  a  passion.  I  hid  my  face  in  the  grass,  I 
was  M'holly  prostrated,  I  lost  myself  in  the  wrestle,  I 
was  rapt  and  carried  away.  .  .  . 

'  Sometimes  on  lying  down  on  the  sward  I  first  looked 
up  at  the  sky,  gazing  for  a  long  time  till  I  could  see  deep 
into  the  azure  and  my  eyes  were  full  of  the  colour  ;  then 
I  turned  my  face  to  the  grass  and  thyme,  placing  my 
hands  at  each  side  of  my  face  so  as  to  shut  out  everything 
and  hide  myself.  Having  drunk  deeply  of  the  heaven 
above  and  felt  the  most  glorious  beauty  of  the  day,  and 
remembering  the  old,  old  sea,  which  (as  it  seemed  to  me) 
was  but  just  yonder  at  the  edge,  I  now  became  lost,  and 
absorbed  into  the  being  or  existence  of  the  universe.  I 
felt  down  deep  into  the  earth  under,  and  high  above 
into  the  sky,  and  farther  still  to  the  sun  and  stars.  Still 
farther  beyond  the  stars  into  the  hollow  of  space,  and 
losing  thus  my  separateness  of  being  came  to  seem  like 
a  part  of  the  whole.  Then  I  whispered  to  the  earth  be- 
neath, through  the  grass  and  thyme,  down  into  the 
depth  of  its  ear,  and  again  up  to  the  starry  space  hid 


i86      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

behind  the  blue  of  day.  Travelling  in  an  instant  across 
the  distant  sea,  I  saw  as  if  with  actual  vision  the  palms 
and  cocoanut-trees,  the  bamboos  of  India,  and  the 
cedars  of  the  extreme  south.  Like  a  lake  with  islands 
the  ocean  lay  before  me,  as  clear  and  vivid  as  the  plain 
beneath  in  the  midst  of  the  amphitheatre  of  hills. 

'  With  the  glory  of  the  great  sea,  I  said  ;  with  the  firm, 
solid,  and  sustaining  earth  ;  the  depth,  distance,  and  ex- 
panse of  ether ;  the  age,  tamelessness,  and  ceaseless 
motion  of  the  ocean  ;  the  stars,  and  the  unkno\\Ti  in 
space ;  by  all  those  things  which  are  most  powerful 
known  to  me,  and  by  those  which  exist,  but  of  which  I 
have  no  idea  whatever,  I  pray.  Further,  by  my  own 
soul,  that  secret  existence  which  above  all  other  things 
bears  the  nearest  resemblance  to  the  ideal  of  spirit,  in- 
finitely nearer  than  earth,  sun,  or  star.  Speaking  by  an 
inclination  towards,  not  in  words,  my  soul  prays  that  I 
may  have  something  from  each  of  these,  that  I  may 
gather  a  flower  from  them,  that  I  may  have  in  myself 
the  secret  and  meaning  of  the  earth,  the  golden  sun,  the 
light,  the  foam-flecked  sea.  Let  my  soul  become  en- 
larged ;  I  am  not  enough  ;  I  am  httle  and  contemptible. 
I  desire  a  greatness  of  soul,  an  irradiance  of  mind,  a 
deeper  insight,  a  broader  hope.  Give  me  power  of  soul, 
so  that  I  may  actually  effect  by  its  will  that  which  I  strive 
for.  .  .  .  Dreamy  in  appearance,  I  was  breathing  full  of 
existence  ;  I  was  aware  of  the  grass  blades,  the  flowers, 
the  leaves  on  hawthorn  and  tree.  I  seemed  to  live  more 
largely  through  them,  as  if  each  were  a  pore  through 
which  I  drank.'* 

*  I  see  now,'  he  says,  '  that  what  I  laboured  for  was 
soul-life,  more  soul-nature,  to  be  exalted,  to  be  full  of 
soul-learning  ';  to  map  out  the  obscure  country  he  had 
discovered,  to  show  its  relation  to  the  earth,  to  build 
a  long  airy  bridge  from  one  to  the  other,  that  he  and  his 
fellows  might  pass  over  and  be  blessed.  Speaking  '  not 
in  words,*  his  soul  prayed  to  be  enlarged,  to  have  some- 

*   The  Story  of  My  Heart. 


From  a  photograph, 


THE   VENUS   ACCROUPIE 
of  "  Nature  in  the  Louvre." 


p.  187. 


•THE  STORY  OF  MY  HEART'  187 

thing  from  sea  and  earth  and  air  and  stars,  to  be  *  full 
of  light  as  the  sun's  rays.'  Not  only  did  he  feel  to  the 
heights  and  the  depths,  but  to  the  '  dimmest  part '  in 
the  life  of  the  earth,  and  from  all  the  ages  his  soul  desired 
'  to  take  that  soul-life  which  had  flowed  through  them.' 
Yet  this  present  moment  was  '  as  marvellous,  as  grand  ' 
as  all  that  had  gone  before  ;  now  was  '  the  wonder  and 
the  glory.'  The  lucid  water  of  the  spring,  the  dew,  the 
storm  wind,  the  summer  air,  the  crescent  moon,  all 
moved  him  to  repeat  his  prayer.  '  All  the  larks  over  the 
green  corn  sang  it  to  me,  all  the  dear  swallows.'  At  sight 
of  the  sea  '  the  passion  rose  tumultuous  as  the  waves.' 
The  sunset  over  London  fanned  it.  It  was  deepest  in 
the  presence  of  living  human  beauty. 

'  In  this  lies  the  outcome  and  end  of  aU  the  loveliness  of 
sunshine  and  green  leaf,  of  flowers,  pure  water,  and  sweet 
air.  This  is  embodiment  and  highest  expression  ;  the 
scattered,  uncertain,  and  designless  loveliness  of  tree  and 
sunlight  brought  to  shape.  Through  this  beauty  I  prayed 
deepest  and  longest,  and  down  to  this  hour.  The  shape — 
the  divine  idea  of  that  shape — the  swelling  muscle  or  the 
dreamy  limb,  strong  sinew  or  curve  of  bust,  Aphrodite 
or  Hercules,  it  is  the  same.  That  I  may  have  the  soul-life, 
the  soul-nature,  let  divine  beauty  bring  to  me  divine  soul. 

'  Statues  also  :  the  smallest  fragment  of  marble  carved 
in  the  shape  of  a  human  arm  will  awake  the  desire  I  felt 
in  my  hill-prayer.'* 

Later  came  the  need  to  put  the  prayer  and  the  inde- 
finable aspiration  into  such  a  form  '  as  would  admit  of 
actually  working  upon  the  lines  it  indicated  for  some 
good.     And  this  was  the  prayer  : 

'  First,  I  desired  that  I  might  do  or  find  something 
to  exalt  the  soul,  something  to  enable  it  to  live  its 
own  life,  a  more  powerful  existence  now.  Secondly, 
I  desired  to  be  able  to  do  something  for  the  flesh,  to 
make  a  discovery  or  perfect  a  method  by  which  the 
fleshly  body  might  enjoy  more  pleasure,  longer  life, 
♦  The  Story  of  My  Heart. 


i88      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

and  suffer  less  pain.  Thirdly,  to  construct  a  more 
flexible  engine  with  which  to  carry  into  execution  the 
design  of  the  will.'* 

The  bones, he  quaintly  says,  should  be  'firmer,  somewhat 
larger.'  He  desires  beautiful  shape  and  movement.  '  I 
believe,'  he  says,  '  in  the  human  form  ;  let  me  find  some- 
thing, some  method,  by  which  that  form  may  achieve 
the  utmost  beauty.'  For  the  soul  he  desires  a  larger, 
more  continuous,  more  illuminated  life  than  that  which 
it  now  meets  with  haphazard,  a  new  and  higher  set  of 
ideas  on  which  it  should  work.  He  believes  in  what  he 
can  touch,  but  that  guides  him  to  another  beauty  as  a 
shadow  guides  us  to  the  substance.  Sometimes  he  himself 
seems  to  use  a  power  which  has  nothing  to  do  with  hearing 
or  touch  or  sight.  He  could  '  feel  '  the  existence  of  the 
man  buried  on  the  Downs,  and  the  coexistence  with  that 
man  leads  him  to  think  that  death  does  not  affect  the 
personality.  The  idea  of  extinction,  not  that  of  continua- 
tion, after  death  requires  a  '  miracle.'  A  man  lay  dead 
in  an  outhouse  at  Coate,  and  as  he  passed  it,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  the  man  was  still  alive.  He  *  cannot  understand 
time  ...  by  no  possible  means  could  I  get  into  time  if  I 
tried.  I  am  in  eternity  now,  and  must  there  remain. 
Haste  not,  be  at  rest,  this  Now  is  eternity. 'f  Like 
Traherne,  he  saw  the  corn  as  '  orient  and  immortal  wheat '; 
for  as  he  moved  about  he  felt  in  the  midst  of  immortal 
things — '  the  sweetness  of  the  day,  the  fulness  of  the  earth, 
the  beauteous  earth,  how  shall  I  say  it  ?'  In  '  The  Open 
Air  '  he  says  that  to  him,  as  a  boy,  the  earth  was  that 
radiant  vision  which  it  would  be  to  one  set  suddenly  down 
upon  it ;  and  '  the  freshness  is  still  there.'  In  London,  as 
on  the  Downs,  he  felt  out  into  the  depths  of  the  ether,  and 
*  touched  the  supernatural,  the  immortal.'  He  asserts 
no  belief  in  alleged  miracles,  or  that  there  have  been 
miracles  ;  but  '  they  would  be  perfectly  natural.'  so  great 
is  the  soul  ;  and  he  can  conceive  '  soul  works  by  simple 
will  or  thought  a  thousand  times  greater.'     He  feels  on 

The  Story  of  My  Heart.  \  Ibid. 


'THE  STORY  OF  MY  HEART'  189 

the  verge  of  powers  which  would  give  '  an  immense 
breadth  of  existence,  an  abihty  to  execute  what  I  now  only 
conceive.'  But  in  the  past  only  three  discoveries  seem 
to  him  to  be  important  :  the  existence  of  the  soul,  im- 
mortality, the  Deity.  He  is  impatient  of  this  poverty, 
and  would  erase  the  superstition,  ritual  and  ceremony, 
built  upon  those  ideas.  He  believes  in  something  beyond. 
If  death  be  extinction — he  is  willing  to  admit  it  possible 
— it  is  nothing  :  '  I  think  immortality.  I  lift  my  mind 
to  a  fourth  idea.' 

Up  to  this  point  the  book  is  the  '  unflinchingly  true  ' 
revelation  of  a  human  spirit  which  he  called  it,  the  writing 
so  simple  and  yet  so  pointed  and  tempered  with  passion 
that  there  is  no  part  which  does  not  deeply  pierce  a  human 
mind.  Even  the  fancy  that  he  would  like  to  have  his 
body  burned  on  a  hill-top  after  death  acquires  a  sublimity 
from  the  lofty  melodies  in  which  it  is  curiously  lapped. 
The  rapture  of  the  aspiration,  had  he  never  got  beyond, 
has  wings  as  of  eagles  to  bear  up  the  heart  towards  noble 
things.  An  unquenchable  lust  of  the  whole  nature  forced 
him  to  question  heaven  and  earth  about  life,  and  to  under- 
take a  voyage  bolder  than  Madoc's  ;  it  has  placed  him 
with  several  honourable  men  whom  such  a  lust  has  brought 
to  at  least  as  high  an  honour  as  the  learning  and  tradition 
which  they  lacked  have  gained  for  many  a  theologian  and 
philosopher.  Sometimes,  in  the  phrasing  and  cadence, 
as  in  '  For  the  flesh,  this  arm  of  mine,  the  limbs  of  others 
gracefully  moving,'  and  in  the  idea — '  I  believe  in  the 
human  form ' — he  seems  to  be  recalling  Whitman,  whose 
'  Leaves  of  Grass  '  delighted  him.  He  sent  a  copy  to  his 
father,  that  silent  thinker. 

There  follows  a  passage  in  which  he  finds  '  nothing 
human  in  nature.'  The  creative  forces  in  this  world  of 
men  and  beasts  and  trees  and  stars  might  seem  to  be 
sportive  godlets.  Such  a  view  may  be  monstrous  ;  but 
let  us  not  forget  that,  like  other  monsters,  it  was  earth- 
bom,  and  born  in  the  open  air.  The  sea,  the  earth,  the 
sun,  the  trees,  the  hills,  care  nothing  for  human  life.     A 


190      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

great  part  of  nature  is  '  distinctly  anti-human.'  '  The 
miserably  hideous  things  of  the  sea,'  *  the  shapeless  shape  ' 
of  the  toad,  the  snake  that  takes  away  the  breath,  even 
the  animals  we  can  love,  are  repellent ;  '  there  is  nothing 
human  in  any  living  animal,'  and  they  are  '  without 
design,  shape,  or  purpose.'  More  absurdly  he  says  : 
'  Animals  think  to  a  certain  extent,  but  if  their  concep- 
tions be  ever  so  clever,  not  having  hands,  they  cannot 
execute  them.'  The  human  mind  cannot '  be  fitted  to  the 
cosmos  '  :  it  is  '  distinct — separate.'  Nature  is  the  work  of 
'  a  force  without  mind,'  not  of  a  deity  ;  '  for  what  we  under- 
stand by  the  Deity  is  the  purest  form  of  idea,  of  Mind, 
andnomind  isexhibited  in  these.'  Julius  Caesar,  whose  bust 
he  watched  at  the  British  Museum,  came  '  nearest  to  the 
ideal  of  a  design-power  arranging  the  affairs  of  the  world 
for  good  in  practical  things  '  ;  but  human  folly  is  '  ever 
destroying  our  greatest.'  In  human  affairs  '  everything 
happens  by  chance  '  ;  '  rewards  and  punishments  are 
purely  human  institutions,  and  if  government  be  relaxed 
they  entirely  disappear.  No  intelligence  whatever  inter- 
feres in  human  affairs.'  He  has  been  in  hell,  and  dreamed 
more  terrible  dreams  than  when  De  Quincey  lay  dowTi 
with  crocodiles.  We  make  our  own  happiness  and  order,  or 
not  at  all.  These  dreams  only  urge  him  yet  more  strongly 
to  search  for  a  soul-life  which  shall  be  independent  of 
Nature  and  the  idea  of  deity.  He  has  really  achieved 
the  most  ancient  discovery  of  the  theologians — that 
man  stands  apart  from  the  rest  of  created  things.  But 
instead  of  being  humbled  by  this — of  seeking  for  some 
cause  such  as  sin — he  sees  in  the  isolation  a  great  hope. 
It  is  man  that  is  supreme  in  man's  world.  Let  us  give 
way  to  our  virtues  and  energies,  and  cease  to  look  for  help 
apart  from  man. 

Wliether  these  violent  and  intolerable  dreams  can  be 
traced  to  some  early  horror  of  seeing  skulls  turned  up 
by  the  plough,  of  reading  of  the  sufferings  of  travellers  and 
prisoners,  I  do  not  know.  They  possibly  owe  something 
to  the  ordinary  countryman's  attitude  towards  animals  : 


'THE  STORY  OF  MY  HEART'  191 

first,  as  things  competing  with  himself  for  maintenance, 
destroying  crops,  and  even  threatening  Ufe  by  poison, 
tooth,  and  claw;  second, as  objects  of  sport:  so  that  it  was 
perhaps  as  true  of  him  as  of  Felix  Aquila,  in  '  After  London,' 
that  he  '  could  not  at  times  shake  off  the  apprehensions 
aroused  by  untoward  omens,  as  when  he  stepped  upon  the 
adder  in  the  woods.'  To  such  a  one  walking  in  the  earth, 
and  seeing  how  beast  and  fish  spend  half  their  time  in 
avoiding  men,  the  thought  must  come  either  that  they 
are  irreparably  alien,  or  that  we  are  at  fault ;  if,  indeed, 
that  other  thought  does  not  intrude,  that  it  were  better 
to  lie  silent,  a  faggot  of  ruddy,  fleshless  bones  that  cause 
no  loathing  to  the  bright  birds,  than  to  crash  through  this 
merry  world  of  dancing  plumes  and  limbs  and  leaves. 
That  we  and  they  are  at  fault  is  the  more  hopeful  view. 
Jefferies  seems  to  have  chosen  the  first.  But  in  his 
'  Nature  and  Eternity,'  an  essay  that  has  some  things  in 
common  with  '  The  Story  of  My  Heart,'  there  are  thoughts 
so  opposed  to  these  fancies,  and  so  much  more  in  harmony 
not  only  with  the  spirit  of  the  best  human  thought,  but 
with  Jefferies'  work  as  a  whole,  that  I  shall  use  it  here. 
The  following  passage  throws  a  little  more  light  upon 
the  nature  of  Jefferies'  vision  : 

'  It  is  only  while  in  a  dreamy,  slumbrous,  half-mes- 
merized state  that  Nature's  ancient  papyrus  roll  can  be 
read — only  when  the  mind  is  at  rest,  separated  from  care 
and  labour  ;  when  the  body  is  at  ease,  luxuriating  in 
warmth  and  delicious  languor  ;  when  the  soul  is  in  accord 
and  sympathy  with  the  sunlight,  with  the  leaf,  with  the 
slender  blades  of  grass,  and  can  feel  with  the  tiniest  insect 
which  climbs  up  them  as  up  a  mighty  tree.  As  the 
genius  of  great  musicians,  without  an  articulated  word 
or  printed  letter,  can  carry  with  it  all  the  emotions,  so 
now,  lying  prone  upon  the  earth  in  the  shadow,  with 
quiescent  will,  listening,  thoughts  and  feelings  rise  re- 
spondent to  the  sunbeams,  to  the  leaf,  to  the  very  blade 
of  grass.  Resting  the  head  upon  the  hand,  gazing  down 
upon  the  ground,  the  strange  and  marvellous  inner  sight 


192      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

of  the  mind  penetrates  the  sohd  earth,  grasps  in  part  the 
mystery  of  its  vast  extension  upon  either  side,  bearing 
its  majestic  mountains,  its  deep  forests,  its  grand  oceans, 
and  almost  feels  the  life  which  in  ten  million  forms  revels 
upon  its  surface.  Returning  upon  itself,  the  mind  joys  in 
the  knowledge  that  it,  too,  is  a  part  of  this  wonder — akin 
to  the  ten  million  creatures,  akin  to  the  very  earth 
itself.  How  grand  and  holy  is  this  life  !  how  sacred  the 
temple  which  contains  it  !  .  .  . 

'  This  little  petty  life  of  seventy  years,  with  its  little 
petty  aims  and  hopes,  its  despicable  years  and  con- 
temptible seasons,  is  no  more  the  life  with  which  the  mind 
is  occupied.  ...  It  is  a  grand  and  ennobling  feeling  to 
know  that  at  this  moment  illimitable  time  extends  on 
either  hand.  .  .  . 

'  The  sight  of  that  splendid  disc  carries  the  soul  with  it 
till  it  feels  as  eternal  as  the  sun.'* 

He  continues  : 

'  Would  that  it  were  possible  for  the  heart  and  mind 
to  enter  into  all  the  life  that  glows  and  teems  upon  the 
earth — to  feel  with  it,  hope  with  it,  sorrow  with  it,  and 
thereby  to  become  a  grander,  nobler  being.  Such  a  being, 
with  such  a  sympathy  and  larger  existence,  must  hold  in 
scorn  the  feeble,  cowardly,  selfish  desire  for  an  immortality 
of  pleasure  only,  whose  one  great  hope  is  to  escape  pain. 
No.  Let  me  joy  with  all  living  creatures;  let  me  suffer  with 
them  all — the  reward  of  feeling  a  deeper,  grander  life  would 
be  amply  sufficient.  .  .  .  Let  me  have  wider  feelings,  more 
extended  sympathies  ;  let  me  feel  with  all  living  things, 
rejoice  and  praise  with  them.  Let  me  have  deeper  know- 
ledge, a  nearer  insight,  a  more  reverent  conception.  Let 
me  see  the  mystery  of  life — the  secret  of  the  sap  as  it  rises 
in  the  tree — the  secret  of  the  blood  as  it  courses  through 
the  vein.  .  .  .  Never  did  vivid  imagination  stretch  out 
the  powers  of  Deity  with  such  a  fulness,  with  such  in- 
tellectual grasp,  vigour,  omniscience,  as  the  human  mind 
could  reach  to,  if  only  its  organs,  its  means,  were  equal 
*  '  Nature  and  Eternity  '  {Lonjjmah's  Magazine,  May,  1895). 


'  THE  STORY  OF  MY  HEART '  193 

to  the  thought.  Give  us,  then,  greater  strength  of  body, 
greater  length  of  days  ;  give  us  more  vital  energy,  let  our 
limbs  be  mighty  as  those  of  the  giants  of  old.  Supple- 
ment such  organs  with  nobler  mechanical  engines — with 
extended  means  of  locomotion  ;  add  novel  and  more 
minute  methods  of  analysis  and  discovery.  Let  us 
become  as  demi-gods.  .  .  .'* 

Reclining  under  a  chestnut-tree  in  this  mood,  he  says 
that  it  is  impossible  to  conceive  ideas  of  murder,  violence, 
or  aught  degrading  ;  the  whole  existence  is  '  permeated 
with  reverent  love.'  In  the  future,  he  thinks,  '  the 
human  race  might  be  as  we  are  this  moment,'  under  the 
chestnut-tree. 

The  finest  passages  follow  : 

'  It  is  probable  that  with  the  progress  of  knowledge  it 
will  be  possible  to  satisfy  the  necessary  wants  of  existence 
much  more  easily  than  now,  and  thus  to  remove  one  great 
cause  of  discord.  .  .  . 

'  This  blade  of  grass  grows  as  high  as  it  can,  the  nightin- 
gale there  sings  as  sweetly  as  it  can,  the  goldfinches  feed 
to  their  full  desire,  and  lay  down  no  arbitrary  rules  of 
life  ;  the  great  sun  above  pours  out  its  heat  and  light 
in  a  flood  unrestrained.  What  is  the  meaning  of  this 
hieroglyph,  which  is  repeated  in  a  thousand  other  ways 
and  shapes,  which  meets  us  at  every  turn  ?  It  is  evident 
that  all  living  creatures,  from  the  zoophyte  upwards — 
plant,  reptile,  bird,  animal,  and  in  his  natural  state,  in 
his  physical  frame,  man  also — strive  with  all  their  power 
to  obtain  as  perfect  an  existence  as  possible.  ...  All  tends 
to  one  end,  a  fuller  development  of  the  individual,  a 
higher  condition  of  the  species  ;  still  farther,  to  the  pro- 
duction of  new  races  capable  of  additional  progress. 
Part  and  parcel  as  we  are  of  the  great  community  of 
living  beings,  indissolubly  connected  with  them  from  the 
lowest  to  the  highest  by  a  thousand  ties,  it  is  impossible 
for  us  to  escape  from  the  operation  of  this  law. 

'  The  physical  and  the  mental  man  are,  as  it  were,  a 
♦  '  Nature  and  Eternity  '  {Long^natis  Magazine^  May,  1895). 

13 


194       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

mass  of  inherited  structures,  ...  He  is  made  up  of  the 
Past.  This  is  a  happy  and  an  inspiriting  discovery  .  .  . 
which  calls  upon  us  for  new  and  larger  moral  and  physical 
exertion,  which  throws  upon  us  wider  and  nobler  duties, 
for  upon  us  depends  the  future. 

'  A  whole  circle  of  ideas  of  moral  conceptions  .  .  . 
which  were  high  and  noble  in  the  rudimentary  being.  .  .  . 
Let  these  perish.  .  .  .  We  must  no  longer  allow  the  hoary 
age  of  such  traditions  to  blind  the  eye  and  cause  the  knee 
to  bend.  .  .  .  The  very  plants  are  wiser  far.  They  seek 
the  light  of  to-day,  the  heat  of  the  sun  which  shines  at 
this  hour.  .  .  .  But  ...  it  is  necessary  that  some  far- 
seeing  master-mind,  some  giant  intellect,  should  arise, 
and  sketch  out  in  bold,  unmistakable  outlines  the  grand 
and  noble  future  which  the  human  race  should  labour 
for 

'  The  faiths  of  the  past,  of  the  ancient  world,  now 
extinct  or  feebly  lingering  on,  were  each  inspired  by  one 
mind  only.  The  faith  of  the  future,  in  strong  contrast, 
will  spring  from  the  researches  of  a  thousand  thousand 
thinkers,  where  minds,  once  brought  into  a  focus,  will 
speedily  burn  up  all  that  is  useless  and  worn  out  with  a 
fierce  heat,  and  evoke  a  new  and  brilliant  light.  This 
converging  thought  is  one  of  the  greatest  blessings  of 
the  day,  made  possible  by  the  vastly  extended  means  of 
communication,  and  almost  seems  specially  destined  for 
this  very  purpose.'* 

The  mood  in  which  this  was  written  must  have  been 
a  happier  one,  and  it  is  justifiable  to  suppose  that  its 
exalted  and  democratic  optimism  was  due  in  no  slight 
degree  to  the  clear  vision  that  saw  in  all  forms  of  life  one 
commonwealth,  one  law,  one  beauty. 

These  thoughts  are  at  one  with  many  which  follow  in 
the  later  chapters  of  '  The  Story  of  My  Heart.'  The 
divine  beauty  of  the  flesh  which  he  enjoyed  in  pictures 
and  statuary  is  curiously  inwoven  with  the  beauty  of 
Nature.     A  shoulder,  a  bust,  gratifies  the  '  sea-thirst ' 

*  '  Nature  and  Eternity'  {Longtnan's  Ma^asine,  May,  1895). 


'THE  STORY  OF  MY  HEART*  195 

with  which  his  throat  and  tongue  and  whole  body  have 
often  been  '  parched  and  feverish  dry.'  The  hps  and 
hair  of  Cytherea,  '  Juno's  wide  back  and  mesial  groove,' 
slake  the  same  thirst.  These  were  they,  he  says  of 
the  Greek  men  and  women,  '  who  would  have  stayed 
with  me  under  the  shadow  of  the  oaks  while  the  black- 
birds fluted  and  the  south  air  swung  the  cowslips.  .  .  . 
These  had  thirsted  of  sun,  and  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky 
Their  shape  spoke  this  thirst  and  desire  like  mine.'* 
It  would,  he  says,  have  seemed  natural  to  find  '  butter- 
flies fluttering  among  the  statues.'  But  the  books,  the 
human  books,  away  from  the  sunlight,  gave  no  thought 
as  the  gleamy  spring  water  did. 

Turning  again  to  men,  the  roaring  press  of  them 
opposite  the  Royal  Exchange  in  London,  he  sees  that 
they  will  wither  away  with  no  result.  But  he  does  not 
despair,  though  he  believes  that  there  is  no  '  theory, 
philosophy,  or  creed  '  to  guide  and  shape  '  this  million- 
handed  labour  to  an  end  and  outcome  that  will  leave 
more  sunshine  and  more  flowers  to  those  who  must  suc- 
ceed.' He  is  forced  to  express  the  desirable  by  the 
images  of  sunshine  and  flowers.  First,  he  says,  we  must 
efface  the  learning  of  the  past,  and  '  go  straight  to  the 
sun.'  Though  at  last  his  prayer  became  '  less  solely 
associated  with  these  things,'  it  is  always  the  sun,  the 
hills,  the  wind,  the  flowers,  the  sea — the  sea  whose  moving 
waters  he  esteems  as  religiously  as  Keats.  It  is  house- 
life  that  he  personally  must  escape  from  '  back  to  the 
sun  ';  away  from  the  preaching  of  house-life  :  '  Remain  ; 
be  content ;  go  round  and  round  in  one  barren  path,  a 
little  money,  a  little  food  and  sleep,  some  ancient  fables, 
old  age,  and  death.'  As  he  is  dissatisfied  with  what  men 
have  done,  so  is  he  with  thought  itself  and  with  experi- 
ence. Those  were  his  topmost  moments  when  he  prayed 
without  words,  and  *  an  ecstasy  of  soul  accompanied 
the  delicate  excitement  of  the  senses ';  this  was  the 
chaos  that  gave  birth  to  a  dancing  star.     Thought  must 

•  The  Story  of  My  Heart. 

13—2 


196       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

expand  so  as  to  '  correspond  in  magnitude  of  conception  ' 
with  sun  and  sea.  This  immeasurable  soul-Hfe  which 
he  desires  is  always  associated  with  the  flesh,  as  in  its 
origin  it  was  associated  with  his  own  senses.  Nothing 
is  of  any  use  unless  it  gives  him  a  stronger  body  and  mind. 
Again  he  demands  a  larger  frame,  a  longer  day,  more 
sunshine,  a  longer  sleep  to  accumulate  new  force.  And 
this  is  the  manner  of  his  demand  : 

'  I  live  by  the  sea  now ;  I  can  see  nothing  of  it  in  a 
day  ;  why,  I  do  but  get  a  breath  of  it,  and  the  sun  sinks 
before  I  have  well  begun  to  think.  Life  is  so  little  and 
so  mean.  I  dream  sometimes  backwards  of  the  ancient 
times.  If  I  could  but  have  the  bow  of  Ninus,  and  the  earth 
full  of  wild  bulls  and  lions,  to  hunt  them  down,  there 
would  be  rest  in  that.  To  shoot  with  a  gun  is  nothing  ; 
a  mere  touch  discharges  it.  Give  me  a  bow,  that  I  may 
enjoy  the  delight  of  feeling  myself  draw  the  string  and 
the  strong  wood  bending,  that  I  may  see  the  rush  of  the 
arrow,  and  the  broad  head  bury  itself  deep  in  shaggy 
hide.  Give  me  an  iron  mace  that  I  may  crush  the  savage 
beast  and  hammer  him  down.  A  spear  to  thrust  through 
with,  so  that  I  may  feel  the  long  blade  enter  and  the  push 
of  the  shaft.  The  unwearied  strength  of  Ninus  to  hunt 
unceasingly  in  the  fierce  sun.  Still  I  should  desire 
greater  strength  and  a  stouter  bow,  wilder  creatures  to 
combat.  The  intense  life  of  the  senses,  there  is  never 
enough  for  them.  I  envy  Semiramis  ;  I  would  have 
been  ten  times  Semiramis.  I  envy  Nero,  because  of  the 
great  concourse  of  beauty  he  saw.  I  should  like  to  be 
loved  by  every  beautiful  woman  on  earth,  from  the  swart 
Nubian  to  the  white  and  divine  Greek. 

'  Wine  is  pleasant  and  meat  refreshing  ;  but  though  I 
own  with  absolute  honesty  that  I  like  them,  these  are  the 
least  of  all.  Of  these  two  only  have  I  ever  had  enough. 
The  vehemence  of  exertion,  the  vehemence  of  the  spear, 
the  vehemence  of  sunlight  and  life,  the  insatiate  desire 
of  insatiate  Semiramis,  the  still  more  insatiate  desire  of 
love,  divine  and  beautiful,  the  uncontrollable  adoration 


'THE  STORY  OF  MY  HEART*  197 

of  beauty,  these — these  :  give  me  these  in  greater  abun- 
dance than  was  ever  known  to  man  or  woman.  The 
strength  of  Hercules,  the  fulness  of  the  senses,  the  rich- 
ness of  life,  would  not  in  the  least  impair  my  desire  of 
soul-life.  On  the  reverse,  with  every  stronger  beat  of 
the  pulse  my  desire  of  soul-life  would  expand.  So  it  has 
ever  been  with  me  ;  in  hard  exercise,  in  sensuous  pleasure, 
in  the  embrace  of  the  sunlight,  even  in  the  drinking  of  a 
glass  of  wine,  my  heart  has  been  lifted  the  higher  towards 
perfection  of  soul.  Fulness  of  physical  life  causes  a 
deeper  desire  of  soul-life. 

'  Let  me  be  physically  perfect,  in  shape,  vigour,  and 
movement.  My  frame,  naturally  slender,  will  not  re- 
spond to  labour,  and  increase  in  proportion  to  effort,  nor 
will  exposure  harden  a  delicate  skin.  It  disappoints  me 
so  far,  but  my  spirit  rises  with  the  effort,  and  my  thought 
opens.  This  is  the  only  profit  of  frost,  the  pleasure 
of  winter,  to  conquer  cold,  and  to  feel  braced  and 
strengthened  by  that  whose  province  it  is  to  wither 
and  destroy,  making  of  cold,  life's  enemy,  life's  renewer. 
The  black  north  wind  hardens  the  resolution  as  steel 
is  tempered  in  ice- water.  It  is  a  sensual  joy,  as  sensuous 
as  the  warm  embrace  of  the  sunlight,  but  fulness  of 
physical  life  ever  brings  to  me  a  more  eager  desire  of 
soul-life. 

'  Splendid  it  is  to  feel  the  boat  rise  to  the  roller,  or 
forced  through  by  the  sail  to  shear  the  foam  aside  like 
a  share  ;  splendid  to  undulate  as  the  chest  lies  on  the 
wave,  swimming,  the  brimming  ocean  round :  then  I 
know  and  feel  its  deep  strong  tide,  its  immense  fulness, 
and  the  sun  glowing  over  ;  splendid  to  climb  the  steep 
green  hill  :  in  these  I  feel  myself,  I  drink  the  exquisite 
joy  of  the  senses,  and  my  soul  lifts  itself  with  them.  It 
is  beautiful  even  to  watch  a  fine  horse  gallop,  the  long 
stride,  the  rush  of  the  wind  as  he  passes — my  heart  beats 
quicker  to  the  thud  of  the  hoofs,  and  I  feel  his  strength. 
Gladly  would  I  have  the  strength  of  the  Tartar  stallion 
roaming   the   wild   steppe ;    that    very    strength,    what 


igS       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

vehemence  of  soul- thought  would  accompany  it.  But 
I  should  like  it,  too,  for  itself.  For  I  believe,  with  all 
my  heart,  in  the  body  and  the  flesh,  and  believe  that  it 
should  be  increased  and  made  more  beautiful  by  every 
means.  I  believe — I  do  more  than  think — I  believe  it 
to  be  a  sacred  duty,  incumbent  upon  every  one,  man  and 
woman,  to  add  to  and  encourage  their  physical  life,  by 
exercise,  and  in  every  manner.  A  sacred  duty  each 
towards  himself,  and  each  towards  the  whole  of  the  human 
race.  Each  one  of  us  should  do  some  little  part  for  the 
physical  good  of  the  race — health,  strength,  vigour. 
There  is  no  harm  therein  to  the  soul  :  on  the  contrary, 
those  who  stunt  their  physical  life  are  most  certainly 
stunting  their  souls. 

*  I  believe  all  manner  of  asceticism  to  be  the  vilest 
blasphemy — blasphemy  towards  the  whole  of  the  human 
race.  I  believe  in  the  flesh  and  the  body,  which  is 
worthy  of  worship — to  see  a  perfect  human  bod}''  un- 
veiled causes  a  sense  of  worship.  The  ascetics  are  the 
only  persons  who  are  impure.  Increase  of  physical 
beauty  is  attended  by  increase  of  soul  beauty.  The  soul 
is  the  higher  even  by  gazing  on  beauty.  Let  me  be 
fleshly  perfect. 

*  It  is  in  myself  that  I  desire  increase,  profit,  and  ex- 
altation of  body,  mind,  and  soul.  The  surroundings, 
the  clothes,  the  dwelling,  the  social  status,  the  circum- 
stances are  to  me  utterly  indifferent.  Let  the  floor  of 
the  room  be  bare,  let  the  furniture  be  a  plank  table,  the 
bed  a  mere  pallet.  Let  the  house  be  plain  and  simple, 
but  in  the  midst  of  air  and  light.  These  are  enough — a 
cave  would  be  enough  ;  in  a  warmer  climate  the  open 
air  would  suffice.  Let  me  be  furnished  in  myself  with 
health,  safety,  strength,  the  perfection  of  physical  ex- 
istence ;  let  my  mind  be  furnished  with  highest  thoughts 
of  soul-life.  Let  me  be  in  myself  myself  fully.  The 
pageantry  of  power,  the  still  more  fooHsh  pageantry  of 
wealth,  the  senseless  precedence  of  place  ;  words  fail  me 
to  express  my  utter  contempt  for  such  pleasure  or  such 


'  THE  STORY  OF  MY  HEART '  199 

ambitions.  Let  me  be  in  myself  myself  fully,  and  those 
I  love  equally  so. 

'  It  is  enough  to  lie  on  the  sward  in  the  shadow  of 
green  boughs,  to  listen  to  the  songs  of  summer,  to  drink 
in  the  sunlight,  the  air,  the  flowers,  the  sky,  the  beauty 
of  all.  Or  upon  the  hill-tops  to  watch  the  white  clouds 
rising  over  the  curved  hill-lines,  their  shadows  descending 
the  slope.  Or  on  the  beach  to  listen  to  the  sweet  sigh 
as  the  smooth  sea  runs  up  and  recedes.  It  is  lying 
beside  the  immortals,  in-drawing  the  life  of  the  ocean, 
the  earth,  and  the  sun. 

'  I  want  to  be  always  in  company  with  these,  with 
earth,  and  sun,  and  sea,  and  stars  by  night.  The  petti- 
ness of  house-life — chairs  and  tables — and  the  pettiness 
of  observances,  the  petty  necessity  of  useless  labour,  use- 
less because  productive  of  nothing,  chafe  me  the  year 
through.  I  want  to  be  always  in  company  with  the  sun, 
and  sea,  and  earth.  These,  and  the  stars  by  night,  are 
my  natural  companions. 

'  My  heart  looks  back  and  sympathizes  with  all  the 
joy  and  life  of  ancient  time.  With  the  circling  dance 
burned  in  still  attitude  on  the  vase  ;  with  the  chase  and 
the  hunter  eagerly  pursuing,  whose  javelin  trembles  to 
be  thrown  ;  with  the  extreme  fury  of  feeling,  the  whirl  of 
joy  in  the  warriors  from  Marathon  to  the  last  battle  of 
Rome,  not  with  the  slaughter,  but  with  the  passion — the 
life  in  the  passion  ;  with  the  garlands  and  the  flowers  ; 
with  all  the  breathing  busts  that  have  panted  beneath 
the  sun.  O  beautiful  human  life  !  Tears  come  in  my 
eyes  as  I  think  of  it.  So  beautiful,  so  inexpressibly 
beautiful  ! 

'  So  deep  is  the  passion  of  life  that,  if  it  were  possible 
to  live  again,  it  must  be  exquisite  to  die  pushing  the 
eager  breast  against  the  sword.  In  the  flush  of  strength 
to  face  the  sharp  pain  joyously,  and  laugh  in  the  last 
glance  of  the  sun — if  only  to  live  again,  now  on  earth, 
were  possible.  So  subtle  is  the  chord  of  life  that  some- 
times   to   watch   troops   marching    in   rhythmic    order. 


200       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

undulating  along  the  column  as  the  feet  are  lifted,  brings 
tears  in  my  eyes.  Yet  could  I  have  in  my  own  heart  all 
the  passion,  the  love  and  joy,  burned  in  the  breasts  that 
have  panted,  breathing  deeply,  since  the  hour  of  Ilion, 
yet  still  I  should  desire  more.  How  willingly  I  would 
strew  the  paths  of  all  with  flowers  ;  how  beautiful  a 
delight  to  make  the  world  joyous  !  The  song  should 
never  be  silent,  the  dance  never  still,  the  laugh  should 
sound  like  water  which  runs  for  ever. 

*  I  would  submit  to  a  severe  discipline,  and  to  go 
without  many  things  cheerfully,  for  the  good  and  happi- 
ness of  the  human  race  in  the  future.  Each  one  of  us 
should  do  something,  however  small,  towards  that  great 
end.  At  the  present  time  the  labour  of  our  predecessors 
in  this  country,  in  all  other  countries  of  the  earth,  is 
entirely  wasted.  We  live — that  is,  we  snatch  an  exist- 
ence— and  our  works  become  nothing.  The  piling  up 
of  fortunes,  the  building  of  cities,  the  establishment  of 
immense  commerce,  ends  in  a  cipher.  These  objects  are 
so  outside  my  idea  that  I  cannot  understand  them,  and 
look  upon  the  struggle  in  amazement.  Not  even  the 
pressure  of  poverty  can  force  upon  me  an  understanding 
of,  and  sympathy  with,  these  things.  It  is  the  human 
being  as  the  human  being  of  whom  I  think.  That  the 
human  being  as  the  human  being,  nude — apart  alto- 
gether from  money,  clothing,  houses,  properties — should 
enjoy  greater  health,  strength,  safety,  beauty,  and 
happiness,  I  would  gladly  agree  to  a  discipline  like  that 
of  Sparta.  The  Spartan  method  did  produce  the  finest 
race  of  men,  and  Sparta  was  famous  in  antiquity  for  the 
most  beautiful  women.  So  far,  therefore,  it  fits  exactly 
to  my  ideas. 

'  No  science  of  modern  times  has  yet  discovered  a  plan 
to  meet  the  requirements  of  the  millions  who  live  now,  no 
plan  by  which  they  might  attain  similar  physical  propor- 
tion. Some  increase  of  longevity,  some  slight  improve- 
ment in  the  general  health  is  promised,  and  these  are 
great  things,  but  far,  far  beneath  the  ideal.    Probably  the 


'  THE  STORY  OF  MY  HEART  '  201 

whole  mode  of  thought  of  the  nations  must  be  altered 
before  physical  progress  is  possible.  Not  while  money, 
furniture,  affected  show  and  the  pageantry  of  wealth 
are  the  ambitions  of  the  multitude  can  the  multitude 
become  ideal  in  form.  When  the  ambition  of  the  multi- 
tude is  fixed  on  the  ideal  of  form  and  beauty,  then  that 
ideal  will  become  immediately  possible,  and  a  marked 
advance  towards  it  could  be  made  in  three  generations. 
Glad,  indeed,  should  I  be  to  discover  something  that 
would  help  towards  this  end. 

*  How  pleasant  it  would  be  each  day  to  think.  To-day 
I  have  done  something  that  will  tend  to  render  future 
generations  more  happy.  The  very  thought  would  make 
this  hour  sweeter.  It  is  absolutely  necessary  that  some- 
thing of  this  kind  should  be  discovered.  First,  we  must 
lay  down  the  axiom  that  as  yet  nothing  has  been  found  ; 
we  have  nothing  to  start  with  ;  all  has  to  be  begun  afresh. 
All  courses  or  methods  of  human  life  have  hitherto  been 
failures.  Some  course  of  life  is  needed  based  on  things 
that  are,  irrespective  of  tradition.  The  physical  ideal 
must  be  kept  steadily  in  view.'* 

It  may  be  said  that  in  this  eloquence  is  the  hectic  flush 
of  the  man  doomed  to  an  early  death  ;  that  here  is  the 
weakling's  morbid  sympathy  with  strength.  But  its 
movement,  its  parallel  to  Shelley's  '  Be  thou  me,  im- 
petuous one  !'  place  it  beyond  criticism  far  within  the 
realm  of  joy. 

'  There  is,'  he  says,  '  no  design  and  no  evolution.'  The 
sequence  from  cause  to  effect  does  not  seem  to  him  inevit- 
able. There  is  no  '  must  ' — which  recalls  the  brook's 
'  there  is  no  why.'  The  balance  of  logic  does  not  corre- 
spond with  life,  with  the  irregular  human  frame,  the 
unbalanced  tree  ;  and  returning  to  his  idea  of  the  in- 
humanity of  Nature,  he  finds  '  no  humanity  '  in  our 
bones,  neither  square  nor  round,  and  causing  '  a  sense  of 
horror,  so  extra-human  are  they  in  shape.'  Instead  of 
arguing  thence  that  human  thought  of  human  origin  is 

*   The  Story  of  My  HcarL 


202       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

above  this  irregularity  and  '  inhuman  '  nature,  he  beheves 
that  it  is  on  a  mistaken  road,  and  has  missed  '  an  immense 
range  of  thought.'  Our  symmetrical  and  regular  thought 
is  not  fit  for  this  unruly  universe.  Jefferies'  hope 
actually  springs  from  this  absence  of  design  and  of  a 
superior  power,  because  '  all  things  become,'  if  we  accept 
this  view,  '  at  once  plastic  to  our  will.'  Nothing  is  done 
for  us  ;  then  let  us  set  about  ruling  the  earth.  Accidents 
are  crimes  ;  they  and  diseases  are  all  preventable.  Our 
bodies  are  flawed  by  our  ancestors  ;  '  none  die  of  age. 
The  only  things  that  have  been  stored  up  have  been  for 
our  evil  and  destruction,  diseases  and  weaknesses  crossed 
and  cultivated  and  rendered  almost  part  and  parcel  of 
our  bones.  In  twelve  thousand  written  years  the  world 
has  not  yet  built  itself  a  House,  nor  filled  a  Granary, 
nor  organized  itself  for  its  own  comfort.  It  is  so 
marvellous  I  cannot  express  the  wonder  with  which  it 
fills  me.'* 

There  is  something  savage  in  this  child-like  astonish- 
ment at  the  way  o  fthe  world,  as  of  the  barefoot  man 
who  first  sat  down  to  muse  why  flints  should  tear  his 
flesh  as  he  mounted  the  hill. 

Nevertheless,  he  thinks  it  possible  that  death  is  un- 
necessary. The  beauty  of  the  ideal  human  being  indi- 
cates immortality.  Above  all,  man  has  a  soul,  an 
'  inner  consciousness  which  aspires,'  and  '  may  yet  dis- 
cover things  now  deemed  unnatural.'  Now  let  us,  there- 
fore, '  begin  to  roll  back  the  tide  of  death,  and  to  set 
our  faces  steadily  to  a  future  of  life.  It  should  be 
the  sacred  and  sworn  duty  of  every  one,  once  at 
least  during  lifetime,  to  do  something  in  person 
towards  this  end.  It  would  be  a  delight  and  pleasure 
to  me  to  do  something  every  day,  were  it  ever  so 
minute.  .  .  .'f 

Theory  and  experiment  are  good.  Observation  is 
better  still,  for  it  can  master  chance.  Like  M.  Maeter- 
linck  much    later,    he    says    that   '  it   is  essential   that 

♦  The  Story  of  My  Heart.  \  Ibid. 


•  THE  STORY  OF  MY  HEART  '  203 

study  should  be  made  of  chance  ;  it  seems  to  me  that  an 
organon  might  be  deduced  from  chance  as  much  as  from 
experiment.'  Like  that  same  thinker,  it  is  for  a  '  first 
valley  of  leisure  '*  that  he  craves,  where  labour  will 
become  *  less  incessant,  exhausting,  less  material,  tyran- 
nical, pitiless.'  He  repeats  his  behef  that  we  can  reach 
ideas  far  outside  the  circle  of  to-day.  Let  all  '  do  their 
utmost  to  think  outside  and  beyond  our  present  circle 
of  ideas.'  '  What,'  he  asks,  '  would  be  said  if  a  carpenter 
about  to  commence  a  piece  of  work  examined  his  tools 
and  deliberately  cast  away  that  with  the  finest  edge  ?' 
That  tool  is  the  soul,  the  mind  of  the  mind,  and  it  must 
be  our  purpose  to  educate  the  soul ;  and  he  is  thinking 
of  that  '  lofty  moraUty  '  which,  says  M.  Maeterlinck, 
'  presupposes  a  state  of  soul  or  of  heart  rather  than  a 
code  of  strictly  formulated  precepts  ...  its  essence 
the  sincere  and  strong  wish  to  form  within  ourselves  a 
powerful  idea  of  justice  and  of  love  that  always  rises 
above  that  formed  by  the  clearest  and  most  generous 
portions  of  our  intelligence. 'f  Just  before  the  noble 
conclusion  of  the  book  ('  That  I  may  have  the  fullest 
soul-life  '),  Jefferies  expresses  his  dissatisfaction  with  the 
words  he  has  used  :  '  I  must  leave  my  book  as  a  whole,' 
he  says,  '  to  give  its  o\mi  meaning  to  its  words  ';  and 
then  '  after  so  much  pondering,  I  feel  that  I  know  nothing, 
that  I  have  not  yet  begun.' 

The  book  is  a  poem  ;  I  had  almost  said  a  piece  of  music. 
The  ideas  rise  up  and  fall,  lose  their  outlines,  and,  resur- 
gent again,  have  not  fulfilled  their  whole  purpose  until 
the  full-charged  silence  of  the  conclusion.  Prose  has 
rarely  reached  such  a  length — I  recall  chiefly  *  Religio 
Medici '  and  the  '  Cypress  Grove  '  of  Drummond — and 
yet  retained  this  absolute,  more  than  logical,  unity,  such 
a  complex  consistency  of  moods  that  now  shake  the  cliffs 
and  now  cannot  loosen  the  dew  from  the  flower  of  the 
grass.  The  reason,  often  beckoned  to,  can  remain  in 
abeyance  throughout  much  of  the  early  enjoyment  of 
*  The  Buried  Temple.  \  Life  and  Flowers. 


204       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

these  harmonies,  and  to  miss  this  enjoyment  is  to  miss 
half  the  book.  For  the  time  being  we  watch  this  great 
conflict  of  one  of  the  Many  with  the  One — 

'Ceu  cetera  nusquam 
Bella  forent,  nulli  tota  morerentur  in  orbe.' 

Even  without  enjoying  it  in  its  entirety,  the  hoHness  of 
its  energy  in  certain  places  cannot  be  passed  by,  and  unless 
we  go  to  it  with  many  amulets  and  ph3dacteries,  we  shall 
believe  that  to  love  and  admire  that  energy  is  at  least  to 
open  the  heart  a  little  wider  to  the  joy  and  sorrow  and 
beauty  of  the  world.  Jefferies  is  a  mystic,  and  speaks  to 
a  world  that  is  not  mystic  yet  likes  to  hear  a  beautiful 
voice,  as  that  giant-king  in  the  '  Arabian  Nights  '  liked  to 
hear  the  lamentation  of  the  caged  human  being.  And 
were  this  book  far  wilder  and  more  remote  from 
market-place  and  laboratory,  the  uncommon  sincerity 
and  human  sweetness  that  break  through  the  many 
veils  could  not  be  repudiated.  Jefferies  himself  said  in  a 
letter  that  he  was  '  no  cabinet  theorist  '  ;  that  his  favourite 
lines  were  those  in  Goethe's  '  Faust ' 

'  All  theory,  my  friend,  is  grey, 
But  green  is  life's  bright  golden  tree.' 

The  gift  of  words  in  the  book  is  undeniable,  phrases  like 
'  the  fresh  and  wandering  air  encompassing  the  world,' 
and  also  the  impetuosity  of  much  of  it,  reminding  us  of 
great  poetry  ;  its  sincerity  added,  it  cannot  be  allowed 
to  die,  except  the  death  of  becoming  a  document.  Or  is 
it,  then,  so  easy  to  know  a  man  as  we  know  this  one  ?  Do 
we  commonly  know  one  man  by  spending  a  lifetime  with 
a  score  ?  Suppose  this  one  wrong  or  deluding,  yet  to  know 
anyone  as  we  can  know  him  is  to  make  us  wiser  and  juster 
in  our  lives  and  judgments.  With  him  we  can  tread  part  at 
least  of  the  boundaries  of  humanity,  or  perchance  learn 
that  what  seemed  a  boundary  is  but  a  sea.  And,  again, 
as  a  devout  spirit  he  must  be  heard,  a  devout  spirit  without 
one  holy  ancient  relic  save  his  own  soul,  and  it  is  surely 


'  THE  STORY  OF  MY  HEART  '  205 

a  tragic  and  inspiring  spectacle  to  watch  this  spirit  at 
odds  with  the  universe  and  time  embattled. 

The  physician  and  the  athlete  have  not  done  for  the 
body  what  Jefferies  helps  to  do  by  proving  it  divine  ;  in 
his  book  lies  more  incitement  to  a  spiritual  consideration 
of  the  flesh  than  in  any  other.  Athleticism  and  week-ends 
in  the  country  are  not  to  be  despised  ;  Jefferies  would  not 
have  despised  them,  though  he  thought  little  of  short 
races  ;  but  they  will  fall  away  and  recur  before  his  '  I 
believe  in  the  body  '  has  even  been  fully  understood.  He 
thinks  of  Nature  as  supplying  men  with  strength  and 
desire  and  means  for  soul-life.  He  has  rediscovered  the 
sources  of  joy  in  Nature,  and  foresees  that  what  has  fed  his 
lonely  ecstasy  in  the  Downs  will  distribute  the  same  force 
and  balm  among  the  cities  of  men  below.  They  are, 
indeed,  perennial  sources,  but  his  passionate  love  of  the 
beautiful  and  joyous  fill  him  with  longing  for  the  day  when 
they  shall  be  universal  too.  In  spite  of  that  thought  of 
the  inhumanity  of  Nature,  I  think  that  not  Blake,  not 
'  Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower,'  so  fills  the  mind 
with  the  attainable  harmony  of  the  world  in  which  man 
has  yet  to  learn  his  part.  A  few  words  of  Blake  are 
quintessential,  inexhaustibly  fecund,  but  they  are  hiero- 
glyphics, while  the  words  of  Jefferies  are  laced  through 
and  through  with  sunlight  and  air,  and  they  have  the 
power  of  wings.  What  other  mystics  have  claimed  seems 
true  of  him — that  he  is  a  mouthpiece  of  Nature  herself. 
He  has  not,  as  others  have  done,  sighed  after  an  unsocial 
virtue,  but  for  one  that  touches  all  men  ;  his  aim  the 
ultimate  one  of  joy  ;  and  therefore  when  he  says,  *  I 
believe  in  the  body,'  it  is  more  than  hygiene,  and  passes 
into  the  beating  of  our  hearts  and  into  the  music  of  life 
itself. 

He  desires  to  study  and  sharpen  and  employ  the  soul, 
*  the  keenest,  the  sharpest  tool  possessed  by  man,'  and 
those  labours,  it  may  be  surmised,  would  amply  fill  the 
time  of  leisure  for  which  he  yearns.  He  does  not,  any 
more  than  M.  Maeterlinck,  pretend  to  draw  up  a  syllabus 


2o6       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

for  disciples,  and  it  is  true  of  him,  as  of  the  greatest 
teachers,  that  his  best  lovers  never  become  his  disciples, 
since  his  work  is  to  inspire,  and,  like  wine,  the  ways  of  his 
inspiration  are  many.     The  soul  which  he  would  educate 
is  what  has  brought  him  his  noblest  pleasures  and  deepest 
hopes,  and  he  believes  it  to  be  a  common  possession  of 
which  he  is  simply  a  discoverer.     Apparently  he  would 
say  that  the  soul  is  often  troubled  by  the  brain  as,  for 
example,  the  eye  at  night  is  troubled,  though  hardly  any 
darkness  is  impenetrable  to  the  eye  that  is  freed  from  all 
clouds  of  cogitation.    In  the  same  way  had  Coleridge,  con- 
vinced of  the  profound  importance  of  the  poet's  inspira- 
tion, planned  an  essay  on  poetry  to  supersede  all  the 
books  of  morals  and  metaphysics.     It  was  enough  for 
Jefferies  to  have  had  the  idea  that  by  the  soul  '  we  have 
our  happiness  or  not  at  aU  ' ;  that  the  soul  does  away  with 
the  need  of  using  the  word  '  God,'  and  is  to  rule  the  world. 
He  cries  in  the  wilderness,  and  the  strangeness  of  the 
crying  cannot  but  avail.     Life  cannot  remain  the  same 
as  it  was  before  the  book  ;  we  must  be  a  little  more  liberal, 
more    adventurous,    more    expectant    and    aware,   than 
before.     In  his  passion  for  humanity  he  is  with  Lucretius 
and  Shelley,  and  his  revolting  note,  like  theirs,  is  woven 
into  the  great  music  ;  he  has  the  true  rhythm  of  life,  as 
the  tide  and  also  the  earthquake  has.     It  is  the  greatness 
of  his  hope  that  makes  him  speak  scornfully  about  the 
achievement  of  the  past,  but  it  is  due  also  in  part  to  the 
belief,  natural  in  so  isolated  a  man,  that  his  experiences 
were  exceptional,  and  that  old  schemes  of  life  were  mis- 
directed because  they  seemed  to  take  nothing  of  the  kind 
into  account.     He  accepts  the  inventions  of  science,  and 
would  not  part  with  them,  any  more  than  with  his  feather- 
bed ;  but  they  are  only  foundations  whose  place  is  under- 
ground.    He  is  impatient  of  the  pride  in  them.     They  are 
but  engines,  and  they  are  deified.     The  soul  should  be 
exalted   and  rule.      It  is  uncertain  what  other  ruler  he 
would  have  among  men.     He  does  not  approach  matters 
of  practice  ;  had  he  done  so,  he  might  have  shown  himself, 


'  THE  STORY  OF  MY  HEART '  207 

as  he  usually  did,  cautious  in  proposing  definite  measures 
of  reform.  But  only  the  readers  over  head  and  ears  in 
love  with  things  as  they  are  could  suppose  that  the  co- 
operation with  posterity  which  he  suggests  is  accessible 
through  party  cries,  or  by  a  method  open  to  our  hap- 
hazard modern  tyrannies.  In  '  Nature  and  Eternity '  he 
says  :  '  It  is  necessary  that  some  far-seeing  master-mind, 
some  giant  intellect,  should  arise  and  sketch  out  in  bold, 
unmistakable  outlines  the  grand  and  noble  future  which 
the  human  race  should  labour  for.'*  This  dream  of  a 
master-mind  and  his  regret  over  the  death  of  Julius 
CiEsar  and  Augustus  recall  the  words  :  '  This  man  of  the 
future  who  will  redeem  us  from  the  old  ideal  ...  as  also 
from  what  had  to  grow  out  of  this  ideal ;  .  .  .  this  beU  of 
noonday  and  the  great  decision  which  restores  freedom 
to  the  will,  which  restores  to  the  earth  its  goal  and  to 
man  his  hope  ...  he  must  come  some  day.'f  But 
Jefferies  would  not  have  made  the  mistake  of  so  admiring 
the  unfettered  great  man's  prowess  as  not  to  see  the 
beauty  of  the  conquered  and  all  the  other  forms  of  life 
which  the  powerful  would  destroy  if  they  might.  He  is 
rather  with  Whitman,  who  eagerly  embraces  all  life,  not 
because  it  is  all  equally  good,  but  because  we  may  spoil 
all  if  we  hastily  condemn  or  destroy  what  has  in  it  the 
goodness  of  fresh  life  ;  only  the  slothful  and  the  imitative 
are  bad.  To  the  end  he  is  divinely  discontented  with  this 
goodly  world,  and  inexpressibly  sad  it  is  to  see  one  come 
from  such  long  draughts  of  beauty  sorrowfully  away  ;  yet 
is  it  wholly  a  joyous  book  save  to  one  who  knows  not  how 
to  live. 

When  in  his  heat  Jefferies  desires  that  his  soul  might  be 
*  more  than  the  cosmos  of  life,'  he  must  either  be  read  in 
heat  or  condemned ;  only  in  the  almost  lyric  sweep  of  the 
whole  is  it  passed.  Yet  such  passages,  weak  in  them- 
selves, do  but  strengthen  the  force  of  the  whole  by  their 
testimony  for  the  writer's  honesty.  A  clever  man  would 
have  erased  them  ;  but,  then,  a  clever  man  would  have 
*  Longman's  Magazine^  1895.  |  Nietzsche. 


2o8       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

rearranged  the  book  and  given  it  an  appearance  of 
reasonableness  which  it  could  not  long  survive.  It  is  by 
the  tones  and  gestures  of  the  writer,  in  his  words  and 
ideas  and  images,  that  he  must  be  interpreted  if  he  is  to 
inspire  where  he  cannot  instruct,  and  forbid  the  duck- 
weed to  mantle  overhead.  Nor  let  anyone  rashly  argue 
that  his  prophecy  is  the  offspring  of  morbid  sensitiveness, 
unless  it  be  thought  that  by  this  time  the  plain  man — if 
any  such  there  be — ought  to  be  superseding  the  man  of 
genius  in  directing  the  world ;  that  we  have  had  enough 
of  madmen  who  will  go  cheerfully  to  the  hemlock  or  the 
cross,  or  even  live  on,  for  an  idea.  He  fought  in  the  dim, 
far-off,  wavering  van,  of  which  we  have  yet  no  sure  tidings, 
his  weapon  the  mountain  harp  or  the  pebbles  of  the  brook, 
and  that,  too,  in  spite  of  the  acquaintance  who  urged  him 
to  produce  '  more  saleable  ware,'  and  the  anonymous 
Christian  whose  comment  on  the  book  was,  '  The  fool 
hath  said  in  his  heart.'* 

*  In  a  letter  to  Jefferies. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

'THE  LIFE  OF  THE  FIELDS'— 'THE  OPEN  AIR.' 

Jefferies  lived  at  West  Brighton  until  at  least  as  late 
as  the  end  of  June,  1884.  In  September  he  was  at 
14,  Victoria  Road,  Eltham,  a  neighbourhood  not  unlike 
that  of  Surbiton,  and  about  as  far  from  London,  where  he 
spent  less  than  a  year,  for  in  June,  1885,  he  was  lodging 
at  Rehoboth  Villa,  Jarvis  Brook,  Rotherfield,  Sussex, 
while  a  cottage  was  sought  for  at  Tunbridge  Wells ;  and 
a  little  later  he  was  at  '  The  Downs,'  Crowborough, 
where  he  lived  until  July,  1886,  or  later.  '  The  Life 
of  the  Fields,'  the  next  volume  of  essays  to  '  Nature 
near  London,'  was  published  in  1884,  and  most  of  it  was 
written  at  Brighton.  '  The  Open  Air,'  published  in  1885, 
was  written  partly  at  Brighton,  partly  (for  example,  the 
last  four  essays)  at  Eltham.  His  subjects  were  by  no 
means  all  taken  from  these  neighbourhoods.  In  '  The 
Field  Play,' '  Bits  of  Oak  Bark,' '  The  Pageant  of  Summer,' 
'  Meadow  Thoughts,'  '  Mind  under  Water,'  and  '  Sport 
and  Science,'  for  example,  his  thoughts  are  of  Wiltshire, 
or  of  some  country  in  which  it  predominated.  In  '  By 
the  Exe  '  and  '  The  Water  Colley  '  he  is  in  Somerset.  In 
several  papers  he  is  thinking  chiefly  of  London  ;  in  one  of 
Paris,  to  which  he  must  have  paid  a  short  visit  at  about 
this  time.  These  papers,  contributed  to  many  different 
magazines  and  newspapers,  fall,  though  not,  of  course, 
without  some  reluctance,  into  three  classes.  The  first 
consists  of  lengths  of  notes,  carefully  wrought  in  parts, 
but   irregular,  almost   shapeless,  and   showing   signs   of 

209  14 


210       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

fatigue  or  of  painful  concession  to  the  '  essay  *  form,  such 
as  '  Clematis  Lane/  '  January  in  the  Sussex  Woods,' 
'  By  the  Exe,'  and  others.  Essays,  accurately  so  called, 
make  the  second  class  ;  these  are  orderly  discussions  of  a 
given  subject,  the  material  supplied  chiefly  by  his  own 
observation  and  reflection,  as  in  '  Mind  under  Water,' 
'  Birds  Climbing  the  Air,'  'The  Plainest  City  in  Europe.' 
In  the  third  class  come  those  papers  with  w^hich  the  first 
might  have  ranked  had  they  been  more  happily  wrought. 
They  are  impassioned  descriptions  or  meditations,  like 
'  The  Pageant  of  Summer,'  '  Meadow  Thoughts,'  '  Sun- 
light in  a  London  Square,'  '  Venice  in  the  East  End,'  and 
to  these  must  be  added  the  stories  and  sketches  like 
'  St.  Guido,'  and  '  Bits  of  Oak  Bark.' 

In  the  first  class,  he  is  hampered  by  his  notebooks  and 
the  necessity  of  writing  for  the  magazines.  The  reader 
who  wishes  for  country  facts  and  '  no  nonsense  '  finds 
them  here.  The  fragments  of  pictures  are  often  fine  in 
detail ;  the  observation  of  natural  facts  useful ;  the 
thoughts,  as  in  '  January  in  the  Sussex  Woods,'  lively  and 
new  ;  all  reveal  something  of  the  main,  and  can  be  enjoyed 
for  his  sake. 

But  the  other  two  classes  show  more  clearly  and 
favourably  the  Jefferies  of  1883,  1884,  and  1885  ;  his 
mind,  his  heart,  and  all  his  senses,  his  whole  humanity, 
is  at  work  in  them,  and,  above  all,  in  the  impassioned 
descriptions  and  meditations.  Some  of  the  essays  in 
the  second  class  show  us  what  a  naturalist  Jefferies  might 
have  become.  He  had  been  for  years  a  great  reader  in 
natural  history  :  he  mentions  Linnaeus,  Darwin,  Lyell, 
Maury,  and  others  ;  while  among  his  books  I  have  seen 
Bevan's  'Honey  Bee  ';  Morris's  '  Butterflies  ';  Shuckard's 
'  British  Bees  ';  Lubbock's  '  Ants,  Bees,  and  Wasps  '; 
J.  Bell  Pettigrew's  '  Animal  Locomotion  ;  or,  Walking, 
Swimming,  and  Flying,  with  a  Dissertation  on  Aero- 
nautics.' His  eye,  as  has  been  seen,  was  restless, 
curious,  and  exact  ;  and  his  power  of  recording  what  he 
saw  in  precise  and  vivid  English  was  growing  every  year. 


From  a  pliotograph. 

EI.I/.Vl'.ETH    IKFKERIES, 
the  mother  ofRichaid  Jeft'eries. 


LATER  ESSAYS  211 

Implicit  in  that  power,  and  of  priceless  value  to  it,  was 
his  own  complex  joy  in  life,  in  the  exertion  of  bodily, 
and  mental,  and  spiritual  energies,  whether  in  himself 
and  other  men  and  women,  or  in  bird  and  beast.  That 
and  an  eye  continually  on  an  object  under  natural  con- 
ditions raise  '  The  Hovering  of  the  Kestrel  '  and  '  Birds 
Chmbing  the  Air  '  to  a  high  place  in  natural  history. 
The  description  is  so  plain  and  matter  of  fact — though 
it  is  also  imaginative  enough  to  bring  the  thing  described 
before  the  eyes  of  all  but  the  most  ignorant  readers — that 
it  may  seem  of  little  account  ;  and  true  it  is  that  it  is 
bound  to  be  superseded  by  something  yet  more  exact  and 
as  vivid.  But  it  is  a  model  and  a  stimulus  ;  much  natural 
history  is  born  dead  through  ignoring  it  ;  and  the  best 
belongs  to  the  same  class,  and,  whether  due  in  any  high 
degree  or  not  to  Jefferies'  influence,  is  beyond  almost 
everything  that  preceded  his  work.  In  this  class  of 
his  essays  occurs  his  claim,  consistently  made  all  through 
his  life,  for  intelligence  instead  of  hereditary  instinct  in 
animals.  He  makes  a  genuine,  and  apparently,  in  part,  a 
successful  attempt, in  'Mind  under  Water,'  to  get  into  the 
mind  of  the  fish,  very  much  as  Maeterlinck  has  done  with 
the  dog.  '  Birds,'  he  declares,  '  are  lively,  intellectual, 
imaginative,  and  affectionate  creatures,  and  all  their 
movements  are  not  dictated  by  mere  necessity.'  Only 
through  such  an  anthropomorphism,  as  we  proudly  call  it, 
can  an  understanding  of  other  forms  of  life  begin,  and 
it  led  Jefferies  to  a  yet  further  stage — that  of  perceiving 
that  there  may  be  things  which  '  weigh  with  ants  '  at 
present  inaccessible  to  our  intelligence,  that  our  range 
of  ideas  no  more  includes  theirs  than  theirs  includes  ours. 
He  may  have  thought  the  more  boldly  on  this  subject 
because  he  was  at  the  time  interested  in  the  forms  of 
mental  activity  which  cannot  be  classed  with  reason,  as 
the  telepathic  explanation  of  a  coincidence  in  the  '  Legend 
of  a  Gateway  '  shows.  He  may  presently  be  proved  to 
have  been  wrong,  but  that  it  was  a  progressive  error 
there  can  be  little  doubt. 

14 — 2 


212        THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

The  third  class  of  Jefferies'  essays  appear  to  belong 
chiefly  to  the  period  which  brought  forth  '  The  Story  of 
My  Heart '  and  '  The  Dewy  Morn.'  Many  of  their 
thoughts  are  to  be  traced  to  the  stir  from  which  sprang 
'  The  Story  of  My  Heart  ';  some  are  almost  repetitions 
of  parts  of  that  book ;  others  are  developments,  or 
further  conclusions,  or  have  faint  infusions  of  the  pro- 
phetic mood  after  its  fury  has  passed.  In  '  Meadow 
Thoughts,'  for  example,  some  of  the  same  thoughts 
fall  into  their  place  among  the  visible  beauties  of  Nature 
with  a  tranquillity  not  to  be  found  in  the  autobiography — 
the  contrast  between  the  bright  summer  light  and  books, 
and  the  correspondence  between  the  light  and  '  some 
likewise  beautiful  and  wonderful  truth  '  as  yet  unknown, 
and  again  the  bitter,  simple  thought  that  '  no  physical 
reason  exists  why  every  human  being  should  not  have 
sufficient,  at  least,  of  necessities.'  The  sunlight  puts 
out  the  words  of  the  printed  books  as  it  puts  out  the 
fire  ;  '  the  very  grass  blades  confound  the  wisest.'  The 
thought  comes  to  him  amid  the  weariness  of  printed 
matter  at  the  British  Museum  :  the  pigeons  fleeting 
about  the  portico  lure  him  again  to  the  something  be- 
yond thought.  '  They,'  he  says,  '  have  not  laboured  in 
mental  searching  as  we  have  ;  they  have  not  wasted  their 
time  looking  among  empty  straw  for  the  grain  that  is 
not  there.  They  have  been  in  the  sunlight.  Since  the 
days  of  ancient  Greece  the  doves  have  remained  in  the 
sunshine.  We  who  have  laboured  have  found  nothing. 
In  the  sunshine,  by  the  shady  verge  of  woods,  by  the 
sweet  waters  where  the  wild  dove  sips,  there  alone  will 
thought  be  found.'  It  is  the  cry,  with  a  deeper  tone  in 
it,  which  the  poet  cried  : 

'The  swoon  of  Imogen, 
Fair  Pastorella  in  the  bandit's  den, 
Are  things  to  brood  on  with  more  ardency 
Than  the  death-days  of  empires.' 

There  is  the  hope,  too,  that  the  beautiful  and  wonderful 
thought  hovering  in  the  sunlight  will  come  to  earth — wiil 


LATER  ESSAYS  213 

come  to  us  before  it  is  so  late  that  we  take  the  gift  in 
weariness  and  dismay.  In  the  spot-markings  of  butter- 
flies' wings,  of  flowers,  of  eggs,  he  says,  '  the  sun  has 
written  his  commands,  and  the  wind  inscribed  deep 
thought,'  and  tells  us  that  to-day  the  immortals  who 
walked  on  the  earth  when  they  were  composed  are  among 
us  yet,  '  if  onl}^  we  will  give  up  the  soul  to  these  pure 
influences.'  The  abundance,  *  the  open-handed  gener- 
osity and  divine  waste  of  Nature,'  again,  lead  him  away 
from  the  meanness  forced  upon  us  by  circumstances  to 
the  belief  that  some  day  '  no  one  need  ever  feel  anxiety 
about  mere  subsistence  ';  and  yet  it  is  pitiful  that  the 
infant  oak  will  not  be  transplanted  to  safety,  and  will 
perish.' 

In  '  Sunlight  in  a  London  Square  '  the  thought  of  the 
reapers  sadly  labouring  sends  him  forward  to  '  a  race 
able  to  enjoy  the  flowers  with  which  the  physical  work 
is  strewn.'  For  himself  and  others  he  desires  longer, 
more  joyous  life,  and  the  pa.ssion  of  his  wish  seems  half 
a  realization  ;  he  desires  it  for  the  very  birds — '  a  hundred 
years  just  to  feast  on  the  seeds  and  sing  and  be  utterly 
happy  and  oblivious  of  everything  but  the  moment  they 
are  passing.'  In  the  same  mood  comes  a  pleading  for 
wiser  treatment  of  '  the  sullen  poor  who  stand  scornful 
and  desperate  at  the  street-corners.'  The  holy  spring, 
the  water  and  the  light,  give  him  of  their  truth,  of  the 
sense  of  beauty  which  they  bring  with  them  ;  in  his 
love  of  its  purity  there  is  an  even  profounder  sentiment 
than  in  Ruskin's  passionate  upbraiding  of  those  who 
defiled  the  Wandel  springs.  In  '  The  Pageant  of  Summer' 
the  hope  is  repeated  :  '  Earth  holds  secrets  enough  to 
give  them  the  life  of  the  fabled  Immortals.'  Part  at 
least  of  the  charm  of  that  and  the  kindred  essays  lies  in 
the  linking  of  spiritual  things  to  their  physical  causes 
among  the  coombes,  the  long  wavering  heights,  the  barley 
and  the  grass,  of  the  Downs,  and  the  flowers  of  Coate 
Farm  itself.  Earth,  the  mighty  mother,  emerges  almost 
personified  in  these  essays,  benign,  abundant,  hale.     In 


214       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

'  Beauty  in  the  Country  '  he  says  that '  it  takes  a  hundred 
and  fifty  years  to  make  a  beauty — a  hundred  and  fifty 
years  out  of  doors.  .  .  .  All  beautiful  women  come  from 
the  country.' 

The  Wind  and  the  Wheat  speak  these  same  things  in 
*  St.  Guido.'  Joy  in  Nature  '  makes  to-day  a  thousand 
years  long  backwards  and  a  thousand  years  long  for- 
wards.' The  Wheat  is  glad  to  be  cut  down  for  men's 
sakes,  knowing  its  tribe  cannot  die,  '  but  there  is  one 
thing  we  do  not  like,  and  that  is  all  the  labour  and  the 
misery  which  ends  in  nothing,  not  even  a  flower.'  The 
Wheat  goes  on  : 

'  "  All  the  thousand  years  of  labour  since  this  field 
was  first  ploughed  have  not  stored  up  anything  for  you. 
It  would  not  matter  about  the  work  so  much  if  you  were 
only  happy  ;  the  bees  work  every  year,  but  they  are 
happy  ;  the  doves  build  a  nest  every  year,  but  they  are 
very,  very  happy.  We  think  it  must  be  because  you  do 
not  come  out  to  us  and  be  with  us,  and  think  more  as  we 
do.  It  is  not  because  your  people  have  not  got  plenty 
to  eat  and  drink — you  have  as  much  as  the  bees.  Why, 
just  look  at  us  !  Look  at  the  wheat  that  grows  all  over 
the  world  ;  all  the  figures  that  were  ever  written  in  pencil 
could  not  tell  how  much,  it  is  such  an  immense  quantity. 
Yet  your  people  starve  and  die  of  hunger  every  now  and 
then,  and  we  have  seen  the  wretched  beggars  tramping 
along  the  road.  We  have  known  of  times  when  there 
was  a  great  pile  of  us,  almost  a  hill  piled  up  ;  it  was 
not  in  this  country,  it  was  in  another  warmer  country, 
and  yet  no  one  dared  to  touch  it — they  died  at  the 
bottom  of  the  hill  of  wheat.  The  earth  is  full  of  skeletons 
of  people  who  have  died  of  hunger.  They  are  dying  now 
this  minute  in  your  big  cities,  with  nothing  but  stones  all 
round  them — stone  walls  and  stone  streets  ;  not  jolly 
stones  like  those  you  threw  in  the  water,  dear — hard, 
unkind  stones  that  make  them  cold  and  let  them  die, 
while  we  are  growing  here,  millions  of  us,  in  the  sunshine 
with   the   butterflies   floating  over  us.     This  makes   us 


LATER  ESSAYS  215 

unhappy  ;   I  was  very  unhappy  this  morning  till  you 
came  running  over  and  played  with  us. 

'  "  It  is  not  because  there  is  not  enough  :  it  is  because 
your  people  are  so  short-sighted,  so  jealous  and  selfish, 
and  so  curiously  infatuated  with  things  that  are  not  so 
good  as  your  old  toys  which  you  have  flung  away  and 
forgotten.  And  you  teach  the  children  hum,  hum,  all 
day  to  care  about  such  silly  things,  and  to  work  for 
them  and  to  look  to  them  as  the  object  of  their  lives. 
It  is  because  you  do  not  share  us  among  you  without 
price  or  difference  ;  because  you  do  not  share  the  great 
earth  among  you  fairly,  without  spite  and  jealousy  and 
avarice  ;  because  you  will  not  agree  ;  you  silly,  foolish 
people  to  let  all  the  flowers  wither  for  a  thousand  years 
while  you  keep  each  other  at  a  distance,  instead  of 
agreeing  and  sharing  them  !  Is  there  something  in  you 
— as  there  is  poison  in  the  nightshade,  you  know  it,  dear, 
your  papa  told  you  not  to  touch  it — is  there  a  sort  of 
poison  in  your  people  that  works  them  up  into  a  hatred 
of  one  another  ?  Why,  then,  do  you  not  agree  and  have 
all  things,  all  the  great  earth  can  give  you,  just  as  we  have 
the  sunshine  and  the  rain  ?  How  happy  your  people  could 
be  if  they  would  only  agree  !  But  you  go  on  teaching  even 
the  little  children  to  follow  the  same  silly  objects,  hum, 
hum,  hum,  all  the  day,  and  they  will  grow  up  to  hate  each 
other,  and  to  try  which  can  get  the  most  round  things — 
you  have  one  in  your  pocket." 

*  "  Sixpence,"  said  Guido.  "  It's  quite  a  new  one."  '* 
It  is  naughty  Socialistic  Wheat.  Then,  again,  in  '  One 
of  the  New  Voters,'  Roger  the  reaper  has  swallowed  a 
gallon  of  harvest  beer,  '  probably  the  vilest  drink  in  the 
world  ':  '  upon  this  abominable  mess  the  golden  harvest 
of  English  fields  is  gathered  in.'  Next  day  he  can  eat 
no  breakfast,  but  he  drinks  more  of  the  beer,  and 
works  fourteen  hours,  then  to  the  inn.  '  I  think,'  says 
Jefferies,  '  it  would  need  a  very  clever  man  indeed  to 
invent  something  for  him  to  do,  some  way  for  him  to 

*  The  Open  Air. 


2i6       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

spend  his  evening.'  He  sees  no  way  out ;  no  way  of 
blunting  the  contrast  between  the  golden  sun  and  wheat 
and  the  harvest  slave.  He  has  come  to  see  that  the 
labourer's  life  is  not,  as  the  Times  said  in  1872,  '  that  life 
of  competency  without  care  which  poets  dream  of  ';  he 
has  even  found  that  harvest  wages  may  be  earned  too 
hard.  He  sees  no  way  out.  He  states  an  evil,  and  dimly 
sees  a  good.  He  has  discovered  something  divine  in 
Nature  with  which  he  cannot  reconcile  men  as  they  are. 
But  he  takes  refuge  in  no  fortress  of  dreams  ;  he  never 
forgets,  he  would  never  desert,  men  and  the  present.  '  The 
forest  is  gone,'  he  writes  at  Eltham,  '  but  the  spirit  of 
Nature  stays,  and  can  be  found  by  those  who  search  for 
it.  Dearly  as  I  love  the  open  air,  I  cannot  regret  the 
medieval  days.  I  do  not  wish  them  back  again  ;  I  would 
sooner  fight  in  the  foremost  ranks  of  Time.  Nor  do  we 
need  them,  for  the  spirit  of  Nature  stays,  and  will  always 
be  here,  no  matter  to  how  high  a  pinnacle  of  thought  the 
human  mind  may  attain  ;  still  the  sweet  air,  and  the  hills, 
and  the  sea,  and  the  sun,  will  always  be  with  us.'* 

But  these  essays  are  not  to  be  judged  by  the  thoughts 
which  occur  in  them.  In  the  best  he  has  created  poetry 
that  gushes  naturally,  thought,  emotion,  and  sensuous 
picture,  out  of  the  loving  contemplation  of  visible 
things. 

There  are  at  least  four  ways  of  looking  at  visible  things. 
Take,  for  example,  a  rough,  thistly  meadow  at  night. 

One  man  sees  a  multitude  of  tall,  pale  thistles  in  a  field 
of  grey  moonlight,  knows  them  to  be  thistles,  acknow- 
ledges the  fact,  and  passes  on  without  pause. 

One  is  startled  by  their  appearance.  They  are  unlike 
thistles  or  any  other  plants  as  seen  by  day,  and  he  has 
never  seen  them  so  before.  He  stops  to  make  sure 
what  they  are,  and  at  last  remembers  seeing  them  in  a 
commonplace  light  by  day,  and  he  allows  the  first  im- 
pression to  die  away. 

Another  sees  them,  and  is  startled,  utterly  forgetful 

*   The  Open  Air. 


LATER  ESSAYS  217 

that  there  was  anything  there  when  he  passed  before. 
He  cannot  reason  about  them,  is  too  lazy  or  excited  to 
go  over  and  touch  and  see  ;  he  returns  home  with  a  tale 
of  the  unusual  moonlight  growth  in  the  field  at  the  edge 
of  the  wood.  In  an  earlier  age  he  might  have  reported 
the  seeing  of  a  mushroom  flourishing  of  fairies. 

Another  sees  them  with  a  rapt  placidity  as  something 
beautiful  and  new,  and  his  recollection  or  discovery  that 
they  are  thistles  does  not  disturb  his  enjoyment.  His 
eye  and  heart  feed  together  upon  their  strangeness  and 
beauty.  He  has  really  captured  one  of  the  visions  which 
clear  eyes  and  an  untarnished  soul  are  summoning  con- 
tinually from  inexhaustible  and  eternal  Nature. 

Jefferies  is  often  like  the  first,  and  the  result  of  this 
kind  of  vision  is  his  most  pedestrian  essay  ;  at  his  best, 
as  in  '  The  Pageant  of  Summer,'  he  is  like  the  last.  Being 
a  prose-writer,  he  cannot  change  the  things  themselves — 
flower,  and  leaf,  and  sky — into  melody  and  words,  as  the 
poet  can  in  verse.  Prose  is  by  its  nature  discursive  and 
explanatory,  and  Jefferies  brings  the  objects  before  the 
eyes,  and  gradually,  by  means  of  a  phrase,  a  comment,  or 
a  thought  arising  out  of  them,  invests  them  with  the 
spirit  of  life  which  gave  them  their  first  significance  to 
him.  Description  and  meditation,  a  beating  heart  and 
memory  aiding,  grow  and  intertwine  with  all  the  appar- 
ently ungoverned  life  of  copse  or  meadow  that  comes  to 
have  a  separate  identity  of  its  own.  He  seeks  no  neat- 
ness or  balance,  is  impatient  of  the  devices  of  the 
city-bred  artist.  '  Is  all  the  world,'  he  asks,  '  to  be 
Versaillised  ?'  It  is  impossible  without  an  example 
to  describe  the  process  by  which  he  passes  out  of  the 
delight  of  the  eyes  into  the  spiritual  world,  as  in  this 
passage  from  '  The  Pageant  of  Summer  ': 

'  Fanning  so  swiftly,  the  wasp's  wings  are  but  just 
visible  as  he  passes  ;  did  he  pause,  the  light  would  be 
apparent  through  their  texture.  On  the  wings  of  the 
dragon-fly,  as  he  hovers  an  instant  before  he  darts,  there 
is  a  prismatic  gleam.     These  wing  textures  are  even  more 


2i8       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

delicate  than  the  minute  filaments  on  a  swallow's  quiU, 
more  delicate  than  the  pollen  of  a  flower.  They  are 
formed  of  matter  indeed,  but  how  exquisitely  it  is  re- 
solved into  the  means  and  organs  of  life  !  Though  not 
often  consciously  recognized,  perhaps  this  is  the  great 
pleasure  of  summer,  to  watch  the  earth,  the  dead  particles, 
resolving  themselves  into  the  living  case  of  life,  to  see 
the  seed-leaf  push  aside  the  clod  and  become  by  degrees 
the  perfumed  flower.  From  the  tiny  mottled  egg  come 
the  wings  that  by-and-by  shall  pass  the  immense  sea. 
It  is  in  this  marvellous  transformation  of  clods  and  cold 
matter  into  living  things  that  the  joy  and  the  hope  of 
summer  reside.  Every  blade  of  grass,  each  leaf,  each 
separate  floret  and  petal,  is  an  inscription  speaking  of 
hope.  Consider  the  grasses  and  the  oaks,  the  swallows, 
the  sweet  blue  butterfly — they  are  one  and  all  a  sign  and 
token  showing  before  our  eyes  earth  made  into  life.  So 
that  my  hope  becomes  as  broad  as  the  horizon  afar, 
reiterated  by  every  leaf,  sung  on  every  bough,  reflected 
in  the  gleam  of  every  flower.  There  is  so  much  for  us 
yet  to  come,  so  much  to  be  gathered  and  enjoyed.  Not 
for  you  or  me,  now,  but  for  our  race,  who  will  ultimately 
use  this  magical  secret  for  their  happiness.  Earth  holds 
secrets  enough  to  give  them  the  life  of  the  fabled  Im- 
mortals. My  heart  is  fixed  firm  and  stable  in  the  belief 
that  ultimately  the  sunshine  and  the  summer,  the  flowers 
and  the  azure  sky,  shall  become,  as  it  were,  interwoven 
into  man's  existence.  He  shall  take  from  all  their  beauty 
and  enjoy  their  glory.  Hence  it  is  that  a  flower  is  to  me 
so  much  more  than  stalk  and  petals.  When  I  look  in  the 
glass  I  see  that  every  line  in  my  face  means  pessimism  ; 
but  in  spite  of  my  face — that  is  my  experience — I  remain 
an  optimist.  Time  with  an  unsteady  hand  has  etched 
thin  crooked  lines,  and,  deepening  the  hollows,  has  cast 
the  original  expression  into  shadow.  Pain  and  sorrow 
flow  over  us  with  little  ceasing,  as  the  sea-hoofs  beat  on 
the  beach.  Let  us  not  look  at  ourselves,  but  onwards, 
and  take  strength  from  the  leaf  and  the  signs  of  the  field. 


LATER  ESSAYS  219 

He  is  indeed  despicable  who  cannot  look  onwards  to  the 
ideal  life  of  man.  Not  to  do  so  is  to  deny  our  birthright 
of  mind.'* 

But  the  part  in  Jefferies'  work  is  usually  much  less 
than  the  whole.  He  has  something  like  the  abundance  of 
earth  itself.  Now  and  then  there  is  a  phrase  like  '  The 
curved  moon  hung  on  the  sky  as  the  hunter's  horn  on 
the  wall,'  or  '  The  storm  passes  and  the  sun  comes  out  ; 
the  air  is  the  sweeter  and  the  richer  for  the  rain,  like 
verses  with  a  rhyme  ';  but  it  is  not  in  such,  were  they  twice 
as  numerous,  that  the  merit  of  a  piece  consists.  The 
writing  has  the  abundance  of  Nature  ;  the  poetry  resides 
in  the  passionate  level  of  the  whole.  To  this  passion 
the  words  are  truly  subservient.  No  word  astonishes  ; 
at  their  best  the  words  are  quietly  effective  ;  they  fall 
now  and  then  to  the  ungainly  or  commonplace.  He  did 
not  refer  his  periods  to  his  ear  ;  also,  he  often  wrote  in 
haste  and  pain.  It  is  rare  for  him  to  produce  a  large 
picture  except  by  accident  :  when  he  does,  he  has  his 
eye  on  physical  objects  and  attempts  to  render  them  by 
accumulation  and  selection  of  details,  and  may  be  said 
to  compete  with  the  effects  of  the  brush  in  such  a  piece 
as  this  from  the  '  Notes  on  Landscape  Painting  ': 

*  The  earth  has  a  way  of  absorbing  things  that  are 
placed  upon  it,  of  drawing  from  them  their  stiff  individu- 
ality of  newness,  and  throwing  over  them  something  of 
her  own  antiquity.  As  the  furrow  smooths  and  brightens 
the  share,  as  the  mist  eats  away  the  sharpness  of 
the  iron  angles,  so,  in  a  larger  manner,  the  machines 
sent  forth  to  conquer  the  soil  are  conquered  by  it,  become 
a  part  of  it,  and  as  natural  as  the  old,  old  scythe  and 
reaping-hook.  Thus  already  the  new  agriculture  has 
grown  hoar. 

'  The  oldest  of  the  modern  implements  is  the  threshing- 
machine,  which  is  historic,  for  it  was  once  the  cause  of 
rural  war.  ...  It  is  as  natural  as  the  ricks  :  things  grow 
old  so  soon  in  the  fields. 

*   The  Life  of  the  Fields. 


220       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

'  On  the  fitful  autumn  breeze,  with  brown  leaves 
whirhng  and  grey  grass  rustling  in  the  hedges,  the  hum 
of  the  fly-wheel  sounds  afar,  travelHng  through  the  mist 
which  hides  the  hills.  Sometimes  the  ricks  are  in  the 
open  stubble,  up  the  Down  side,  where  the  wind  comes  in 
a  long,  strong  rush,  like  a  tide,  carrying  away  the  smoke 
from  the  funnel  in  a  sweeping  trail  ;  while  the  brown 
canvas,  stretched  as  a  screen,  flaps  and  tears,  and  the 
folk  at  work  can  scarce  hear  each  other  speak,  any  more 
than  you  can  by  the  side  of  the  sea.  Vast  atmospheric 
curtains — what  else  can  you  call  them  ? — roll  away, 
opening  a  view  of  the  stage  of  hills  a  moment,  and, 
closing  again,  reach  from  heaven  to  earth  around.  The 
dark  sky  thickens  and  lowers  as  if  it  were  gathering 
thunder,  as  women  glean  wheat-ears  in  their  laps.  It  is 
not  thunder  ;  it  is  as  if  the  wind  grew  solid  and  hurled 
itself — as  a  man  might  throw  out  his  clenched  fist — at 
the  hill.  The  inclined  plane  of  the  mist-clouds  again 
reflects  a  grey  light,  and,  as  if  swept  up  by  the  fierce  gale, 
a  beam  of  sunshine  comes.  You  see  it  first  long,  as  it  is 
at  an  angle  ;  then  overhead  it  shortens,  and  again 
lengthens  after  it  has  passed,  somewhat  like  the  spoke  of 
a  wheel.  In  the  second  of  its  presence  a  red  handker- 
chief a  woman  wears  on  the  ricks  stands  out,  the  brass 
on  the  engine  glows,  the  water  in  the  butt  gleams,  men's 
faces  brighten,  the  cart-horse's  coat  looks  glossy,  the  straw 
a  pleasant  yellow.  It  is  gone,  and  lights  up  the  backs 
of  the  sheep  yonder  as  it  runs  up  the  hill  swifter  than  a 
hare.  Swish  !  The  north  wind  darkens  the  sky,  and 
the  fly-wheel  moans  in  the  gloom  ;  the  wood-pigeons  go 
a  mile  a  minute  on  the  wind,  hardly  using  their  wings  ; 
the  brown  woods  below  huddle  together,  rounding  their 
shoulders  to  the  blast  ;  a  great  air-shadow,  not  mist,  a 
shadow  of  thickness  in  the  air,  looms  behind  a  tiled  roof 
in  the  valley.  The  vast  profound  is  full  of  the  rushing 
air.  .  .  .'* 

Here  nothing  is  created.  It  might  have  been  done 
*   The  Life  of  the  Fields. 


LATER  ESSAYS  221 

in  a  score  of  different  ways  equally  well.  It  is  the  work 
of  a  faithful  observer,  and  it  can  suggest  Nature  to  those 
who  know  it.  The  words  are  such  as  the  observer  might 
have  used  to  another  in  order  to  describe  a  scene  familiar 
to  them  both.  But  the  objects  are  written  about ;  they  are 
not  presented  as,  for  example,  visible  objects  are  presented 
in  Mr.  Sturge  Moore's  "  Rout  of  the  Amazons."  The 
writing  is  nearer  to  the  original  than  an  auctioneer's 
descriptions,  but  is  not  different  in  essential  character. 
For  both  are  without  imagination,  the  power  that  sees 
a  thing  alive  with  the  mind's  eye,  so  that,  even  were  that 
thing  outside  to  pass  away  for  ever,  it  would  still  be  clear 
and  with  power  of  motion  within  the  brain.  To  possess 
that  power  is  to  enjoy  and  suffer  life  intensely  :  to  give 
that  inward  image  another  outer  life,  in  words,  in  paint, 
in  marble,  in  melody,  is  to  be  an  artist.  Jefferies  had 
that  power,  but  the  images  that  he  preserved  in  full 
vitality  were  of  emotions  and  sensations  rather  than  of 
physical  objects.  The  emotion  connected  with  an  object 
was  usually  more  vivid  in  his  mind  than  the  object  itself, 
notwithstanding  his  powerful  and  faithful  sight.  Even 
in  the  passage  just  quoted  it  is  a  feeling  about  the  land- 
scape that  comes  nearest  to  being  created  and  made 
alive.  When  the  feeling  is  stronger  and  prevails,  as  in 
the  harvest  landscape  of  '  The  Dewy  Morn,'  and  in  many 
passages  in  *  The  Pageant  of  Summer  '  and  '  Meadow 
Thoughts,'  Nature's  loveliness,  permanence,  and  abun- 
dance is  married  to  the  writer's  humanity  in  a  manner 
that  effects  a  more  rare  and  more  difficult  achievement — 
one  of  Jefferies'  greatest  achievements — than  the  pictures 
of  Ruskin  or  of  Stevenson. 

In  '  Sunlight  in  a  London  Square,'  which  is  typical  of 
his  later  moralized  landscape,  there  is  no  mere  advice  to 
a  landscape  painter  : 

'  I  stood  under  the  portico  of  the  National  Gallery  in 
the  shade,  looking  southwards,  across  the  fountains  and 
the  lions,  towards  the  green  trees  under  the  distant  tower. 
Once  a  swallow  sang  in  passpg  on  the  wing,  garrulous  still 


222        THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

as  in  the  time  of  old  Rome  and  Augustan  Virgil.  From 
the  high  pediments  dropped  the  occasional  chatter  of 
sparrows,  and  the  chirp  of  their  young  in  the  roofs.  The 
second  brood  ;  they  were  late  ;  they  would  not  be  in  time 
for  the  harvest  and  the  fields  of  stubble.  A  flight  of  blue 
pigeons  rose  from  the  central  pavement  to  the  level  line 
of  the  parapet  of  the  western  houses.  A  starling  shot 
across  the  square,  swift,  straight,  resolute.  I  looked  for 
the  swifts,  but  they  had  gone,  earliest  of  all  to  leave  our 
sky  for  distant  countries.  Away  in  the  harvest-field  the 
reaper,  pausing  in  his  work,  had  glanced  up  at  the  one 
stray  fleck  of  cloud  in  the  sky,  which  to  my  fancy  might 
be  a  Cupid  on  a  blue  panel,  and,  seeing  it,  smiled  in  the 
midst  of  the  corn,  wiping  his  blackened  face,  for  he  knew 
it  meant  dry  weather.  Heat,  and  the  dust  of  straw,  the 
violent  labour,  had  darkened  his  face  from  brown  almost 
to  blackness — a  more  than  swarthiness,  a  blackness. 
The  stray  cloud  was  spreading  out  in  filaments,  each 
thread  drawn  to  a  fineness  that  ended  presently  in  dis- 
appearance. It  was  a  sign  to  him  of  continued  sunshine 
and  the  prosperity  of  increased  wages.  The  sun  from 
whose  fiery  brilliance  I  escaped  into  the  shadow  was  to 
him  a  welcome  friend  ;  his  neck  was  bare  to  the  fierceness 
of  the  sun.  His  heart  was  gladdened  because  the  sky 
promised  him  permission  to  labour  till  the  sinews  of  his 
fingers  stiffened  in  their  crooked  shape  (as  they  held  the 
reaping-hook),  and  he  could  hardly  open  them  to  grasp 
the  loaf  he  had  gained. 

'  So  men  laboured  of  old  time,  whether  with  plough  or 
sickle  or  pruning-hook,  in  the  days  when  Augustan  Virgil 
heard  the  garrulous  swallow,  still  garrulous.  An  endless 
succession  of  labour,  under  the  brightness  of  summer, 
under  the  gloom  of  winter  ;  to  my  thought  it  is  a  sadness 
even  in  the  colour  and  light  and  glow  of  this  hour  of  sun, 
this  ceaseless  labour,  repeating  the  furrow,  reiterating  the 
blow,  the  same  furrow,  the  same  stroke — shall  we  never 
know  how  to  lighten  it,  how  to  live  with  the  flowers,  the 
swallows,  the  sweet,  delicious  shade,  and  the  murmur  of 


LATER  ESSAYS  223 

the  stream  ?  Not  the  blackened  reaper  only,  but  the 
crowd  whose  low  hum  renders  the  fountain  inaudible,  the 
nameless  and  unknown  crowd  of  this  immense  city 
wreathed  round  about  the  central  square.  I  hope 
that  at  some  time,  by  dint  of  bolder  thought  and  freer 
action,  the  world  shall  see  a  race  able  to  enjoy  it  without 
stint,  a  race  able  to  enjoy  the  colours  of  the  garden  of 
life.  To  look  backwards  with  the  swallow  there  is  sad- 
ness, to-day  with  the  fleck  of  cloud  there  is  unrest  ; 
but  forward,  with  the  broad  sunlight,  there  is  hope.  .  .  .' 

Then  there  are  the  passages  where  he  is  interested  in 
his  own  impressions,  but  has  not  advanced  to  a  full 
artistic  use  of  them — as,  for  example,  when  he  tells  us  of 
the  sense  of  wildness  coming  at  the  touch  of  the  Reed 
Canary  Grass,  or  where  he  says  that  there  is  no  purple  in 
ripe  wheat  which  can  be  seen  if  it  is  looked  for  specially, 
'  but  when  the  distant  beams  of  sunlight  travelling  over 
the  hill  swept  through  the  rich  ripe  grain,  for  a  moment 
there  was  a  sense  of  purple  on  the  retina.'  The  honesty 
and  exactness  of  that  guarantee  the  quality  of  his  work 
and  of  his  observation. 

One  piece  of  advice  to  those  who  would  observe  he  repeats 
several  times  :  summer  and  winter  keep  in  one  place, 
because  in  the  course  of  a  year  every  creature  that  is  not 
thoroughly  local  will  pass  over  any  given  spot.  It  was 
probably  his  own  habit  more  and  more,  for  though  in  a 
letter  written  late  in  his  life  at  Crowborough  he  speaks 
of  knowing  the  whole  range  of  the  South  Downs,  he  was 
compelled  by  ill-health  to  walk  less  and  less.  His  earlier 
writings  were  the  work  of  a  walker  ;  the  later  are  the  work 
of  one  who  lies  or  sits. 


CHAPTER  XV 

'THE   DEWY   MORN' 

'  The  Dewy  Morn,'  originally  written  several  years 
before,  but  certainly  revised,  was  published  in  1884. 
The  manuscript  was  first  sent  to  Messrs.  Longman 
from  Brighton  in  December,  1883,  with  a  note  request- 
ing that  it  shall  not  be  given  to  a  Tory  reader,  '  or 
it  will  be  condemned  without  mercy.'  A  large  part 
of  it  was  almost  certainly  rewritten  in  its  present  form 
at  about  the  same  time  as  '  The  Story  of  My  Heart.' 
It  has  much  of  the  same  emotional  thought ;  it  has  the 
same  passion  and  impetuosity  in  style.  Returning  as  he 
did  so  often  in  '  The  Story  of  My  Heart '  to  his  youth,  he 
put  his  memories  and  his  mature  divinations  into  the 
heroine  of  '  The  Dewy  Morn,'  the  beautiful  country  girl 
Felise.  In  women  he  found  the  beauty  he  saw  and  loved 
in  Nature,  as  if,  indeed,  the}^  were  made,  as  Blodeuwedd 
was  made  by  Gwydion,  of  the  blossoms  of  the  oak  and 
the  blossoms  of  the  broom  and  the  blossoms  of  the 
meadow-sweet,  but  with  an  added  solemnity  as  of  the 
mountains  and  of  light  upon  great  waters.  Perhaps  he 
had  found  more  in  one  woman  than  in  any  other  human 
beings  :  certain  it  is  that  he  early  began  to  draw,  or  try  to 
draw,  women  of  singular  beauty  and  character,  with  a 
vigour  and  originality,  as  in  the  Georgiana  of  his  '  Restless 
Human  Hearts,'  beyond  the  man.  Cicely  Luckett  is  a 
fair,  happy,  sun-sweet  shadow  of  a  character.  Frances  in 
'  Bevis '  is  only  pretty  and  female.  In  some  of  his  Brighton 
essays  his  admiration   of   well-dressed  women  riding  or 

224 


'  THE  DEWY  MORN  '  225 

walking  in  the  superb  sunlight  gave  an  unusual  sparkle 
and  gaiety  to  the  writing.  In  '  Bevis,'  in  '  The  Field 
Play/  and  in  the  early  '  Midsummer  Hum  '  he  sketched  or 
suggested  several  labourers'  daughters  of  great  freshness, 
courage,  and  health.  His '  Golden  Brown  '  is  a  pure  piece 
of  worship  of  the  peculiar  beauty  of  young  labouring 
women,  perhaps  of  gipsy  blood  (he  was  interested  in  gipsies 
whom  he  often  saw  at  Crowborough,  and  he  read  Smart 
and  Crofton's  '  Dialect  of  the  English  Gipsies  ') : — 

'  Two  young  women,  both  in  the  freshness  of  youth 
and  health.  Their  faces  glowed  with  a  golden-brown,  and 
so  great  is  the  effect  of  colour  that  their  plain  features 
were  transfigured.  The  sunlight  under  their  faces  made 
them  beautiful.  The  summer  light  had  been  absorbed 
by  the  skin,  and  now  shone  forth  from  it  again  ;  as  certain 
substances  exposed  to  the  day  absorb  light  and  emit  a 
phosphorescent  gleam  in  the  darkness  of  night,  so  the 
sunlight  had  been  drunk  up  by  the  surface  of  the  skin, 
and  emanated  from  it. 

'  Hour  after  hour  in  the  gardens  and  orchards  they 
worked  in  the  full  beams  of  the  sun,  gathering  fruit  for 
the  London  market,  resting  at  midday  in  the  shade  of  the 
elms  in  the  corner.  Even  then  they  were  in  the  sunshine 
— even  in  the  shade,  for  the  air  carries  it,  or  its  influence, 
as  it  carries  the  perfumes  of  flowers.  The  heated  air 
undulates  over  the  field  in  waves  which  are  visible  at  a 
distance  ;  near  at  hand  they  are  not  seen,  but  roll  in 
endless  ripples  through  the  shadows  of  the  trees,  bringing 
with  them  the  actinic  power  of  the  sun.  Not  actinic — 
alchemic — some  intangible,  mysterious  power  which  can- 
not be  supplied  in  any  other  form  but  the  sun's  rays. 
It  reddens  the  cherry,  it  gilds  the  apple,  it  colours  the 
rose,  it  ripens  the  wheat,  it  touches  a  woman's  face  with 
the  golden-brown  of  ripe  life — ripe  as  a  plum.  There 
is  no  other  hue  so  beautiful  as  this  human  sunshine  tint. 

'  The  great  painters  knew  it — Rubens,  for  instance  ; 
perhaps  he  saw  it  on  the  faces  of  the  women  who  gathered 
fruit  or  laboured  at  the  harvest  in  the  Low  Countries 

15 


226       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

centuries  since.  He  could  never  have  seen  it  in  a  city  of 
these  northern  climes,  that  is  certain.  Nothing  in  nature 
that  I  know,  except  the  human  face,  ever  attains  this 
colour.  Nothing  like  it  is  ever  seen  in  the  sky,  either  at 
dawn  or  sunset ;  the  da\vn  is  often  golden,  often  scarlet,  or 
purple  and  gold  ;  the  sunset  crimson,  flaming  bright,  or 
delicately  grey  and  scarlet ;  lovely  colours  all  of  them,  but 
not  like  this.  Nor  is  there  any  flower  comparable  to  it, 
nor  any  gem.  It  is  purely  human,  and  it  is  only  found  on 
the  human  face  which  has  felt  the  sunshine  continually. 
There  must,  too,  I  suppose,  be  a  disposition  towards  it,  a 
peculiar  and  exceptional  condition  of  the  fibres  which 
build  up  the  skin  ;  for  of  the  numbers  who  work  out  of 
doors,  very,  very  few  possess  it ;  they  become  brown,  red, 
or  tanned,  sometimes  of  a  parchment  hue — they  do  not 
get  this  colour. 

'  These  two  women  from  the  fruit  gardens  had  the 
golden-brown  in  their  faces,  and  their  plain  features  were 
transfigured.  They  were  walking  in  the  dusty  road  ;  there 
was  as  background  a  high,  dusty  hawthorn  hedge  which 
had  lost  the  freshness  of  spring  and  was  bro\vned  by  the 
work  of  caterpillars  ;  they  were  in  rags  and  jags,  their  shoes 
had  split,  and  their  feet  looked  twice  as  wide  in  conse- 
quence. Their  hands  were  black  ;  not  grimy,  but  abso- 
lutely black,  and  neither  hands  nor  necks  ever  knew 
water,  I  am  sure.  There  was  not  the  least  shape  to  their 
garments  ;  their  dresses  simply  hung  dov\Ti  in  straight 
ungraceful  lines  ;  there  was  no  colour  of  ribbon  or  flower, 
to  hght  up  the  dinginess.  But  they  had  the  golden-brown 
in  their  faces,  and  they  were  beautiful. 

'  The  feet,  as  they  walked,  were  set  firm  on  the  ground, 
and  the  body  advanced  with  measured,  deliberate,  yet  lazy 
and  confident  grace  ;  shoulders  thrown  back — square,  but 
not  over-square  (as  those  who  have  been  drilled)  ;  hips 
swelling  at  the  side  in  lines  like  the  full  bust,  though  longer 
drawn  ;  busts  well  filled  and  shapely,  despite  the  rags  and 
jags  and  the  washed-out  gaudiness  of  the  shawl.  There 
was  that  in  their  cheeks  that  all  the  wealth  of  London 


'THE  DEWY  MORN'  227 

could  not  purchase — a  superb  health  in  their  carriage 
princesses  could  not  obtain.  It  came,  then,  from  the 
air  and  sunlight,  and  still  more,  from  some  alchemy  un- 
known to  the  physician  or  the  physiologist,  some  faculty 
exercised  by  the  body,  happily  endowed  with  a  special 
power  of  extracting  the  utmost  richness  and  benefit  from 
the  rudest  elements.  Thrice  blessed  and  fortunate, 
beautiful  golden-brown  in  their  cheeks,  superb  health  in 
their  gait,  they  walked  as  the  immortals  on  earth.'* 

The  beauty  of  a  woman  seemed  to  him  so  large  and  full 
of  divine  correspondencies  that  in  '  Beauty  in  the  Country  ' 
he  says  :  '  Her  physique  excels  man's  '  ;  and  that  paper 
is  a  prose  counterpart  to  Wordsworth's  '  Three  years  she 
grew  in  sun  and  shower.' 

'  She  walks,  and  the  very  earth  smiles  beneath  her  feet. 
Something  comes  with  her  that  is  more  than  mortal ; 
witness  the  yearning  welcome  that  stretches  towards  her 
from  all.  As  the  sunshine  lights  up  the  aspect  of  things, 
so  her  presence  sweetens  the  very  flowers  like  dew.  But 
the  yearning  welcome  is,  I  think,  the  most  remarkable  of 
the  evidence  that  may  be  accumulated  about  it.  So  deep, 
so  earnest,  so  forgetful  of  the  rest,  the  passion  of  beauty  is 
almost  sad  in  its  intense  abstraction.  It  is  a  passion,  this 
yearning.  She  walks  in  the  glory  of  young  life  ;  she  is 
really  centuries  old. 

'  A  hundred  and  fifty  years  at  the  least — more  probably 
twice  that — have  passed  away,  while  from  all  enchanted 
things  of  earth  and  air  this  preciousness  has  been  drawn. 
From  the  south  wind  that  breathed  a  century  and  a  half 
ago  over  the  green  wheat.  From  the  perfume  of  the  grow- 
ing grasses  waving  over  honey-laden  clover  and  laughing 
veronica,  hiding  the  greenfinches,  baffling  the  bee.  From 
rose-loved  hedges,  woodbine,  and  cornflower  azure-blue, 
where  yellowing  wheat-stalks  crowd  up  under  the  shadow 
of  green  firs.  All  the  devious  brooklet's  sweetness  where 
the  iris  stays  the  sunlight  ;  all  the  wild  woods  hold  of 
beauty  ;  all  the  broad  hill's  thyme  and  freedom  :  thrice  a 

*  The  Open  Air. 

15—2 


228       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

hundred  years  repeated.  A  hundred  years  of  cowshps, 
blue-bells,  violets  ;  purple  spring  and  golden  autumn  ; 
sunshine,  shower,  and  devvy  mornings  ;  the  night  im- 
mortal ;  all  the  rhythm  of  Time  unrolling.  A  chronicle 
unwritten  and  past  all  power  of  writing  :  who  shall  pre- 
serve a  record  of  the  petals  that  fell  from  the  roses  a 
century  ago  ?  The  swallows  to  the  house-top  three 
hundred  times — think  a  moment  of  that.  Thence  she 
sprang,  and  the  world  yearns  towards  her  beauty  as  to 
flowers  that  are  past.  The  loveliness  of  seventeen  is 
centuries  old.     Is  this  why  passion  is  almost  sad  ?'* 

The  arms,  the  torso,  the  mouth  of  woman  uplift  his 
heart  with  a  sense  of  the  divine. 

In  '  The  Dewy  Morn  '  he  creates  a  woman  who  shall 
justify  this  sense  of  her  divinity,  which  she  does  without 
losing  her  reality,  nor  even,  except  in  her  physical  beauty, 
rising  above  many  other  healthy  young  women  in  love. 
She  is  a  beautiful  lover,  born  not  out  of  the  bitter  sea,  but 
out  of  the  streaming  dew  that  makes  the  grass  sweeter 
than  honeycomb,  Jefferies  is  not  merely  interested  in 
her,  but  pours  out  her  passion  by  an  intense  imaginative 
act  in  which  she  absorbs  him,  yet  retains  her  individuality; 
she  is  virginal,  like  few  heroines,  entirely  uncorrupted 
by  the  author.  She  is  the  girl  of  '  Lov'e  in  the  Valley '  seen 
by  a  different  lover. 

Felise,  a  girl  of  twenty,  lives  with  her  uncle,  Mr.  Goring, 
an  independent  man  with  some  land  and  a  house,  who 
has  secluded  himself,  gardening,  beekeeping,  planting 
trees,  and  meditating.  The  name  Felise  was  possibly 
given  to  her  in  the  early  first  draft  out  of  homage  to 
*  Poems  and  Ballads.'  The  book  tells  first  of  her  hearty, 
joyous  passion  of  love  for  Martial  Barnard,  a  young 
neighbour  living  on  a  big  encumbered  farm.  He  has  long 
thought  himself  in  love  with  another,  but  his  feeling  has 
stagnated,  and  he  has  fallen  into  an  embittered  state.  He 
admires  Felise  coolly,  and  is  much  with -her,  but  has 
resolved   not   to    fall   in   love.     She    will    do    anything 

*   rAe  Open  Air. 


'THE  DEWY  MORN'  229 

to  be  with  him,  but  his  feeUng  for  her  is  only  converted 
to  perfect  love  when  he  believes  himself  to  be  drowning 
in  an  attempt  to  save  the  life  of  Felise's  maid,  Polly  Shaw. 
Another  lover  is  Robert  Godwin,  the  hard  bailiff  of  the 
great  Cornleigh  Estate,  who  has  secretly  grown  tender 
over  her  since  she  rolled  in  his  mowing  grass  as  a  child 
and  he  said  nothing.  Seeing  her  the  frank  lover  of  his 
rival,  Barnard,  he  one  day  seizes  her,  binds  her,  and  tries 
to  make  his  horse  trample  on  her  face  as  she  lies  upon  the 
ground.  Martial  shoots  the  horse,  and  Godwin  soon 
afterwards  kills  himself.  Martial's  fortunes  mend,  and 
he  is  able  to  marry  Felise  at  the  end  of  the  book. 

As  a  background  there  are  the  Downs  and  the  swollen 
Cornleigh  Estate  belonging  to  a  stupid  rich  man  who  has 
long  represented  the  county  in  Parliament,  and  has  gone 
on  rounding  off  his  estate  with  the  best  nature  in  the 
world,  allowing  his  bailiff  to  see  that  no  one  not  working 
on  the  estate  shall  dwell  in  one  of  his  cottages,  to  deny  the 
villagers  access  to  drinking  water,  and  so  on.  Goring  is 
a  stiff,  quiet  opponent  to  Cornleigh  ;  Martial,  in  a  long 
speech  at  a  meeting  where  everyone  is  bowing  down  to 
Cornleigh,  an  eloquent  opponent  who  has  his  coat  torn 
for  his  pains. 

Goring,  a  musing,  reticent  fugitive  from  the  superfluous 
troubles  of  the  world,  is  not  a  well-defined  character,  but 
his  library,  his  garden,  his  filbert  walk,  and  the  bathing- 
pool  in  his  woods,  make  a  lovely  refuge  for  Felise.  They 
are  a  pair  not  unlike  Prospero  and  Miranda. 

She  has  flawless  physical  strength,  and  at  the  opening 
of  the  book  her  splendid  energy,  all  the  unhesitating 
sensuousness  of  health,  innocence,  and  youth,  soars  with 
the  emotion  of  love  for  Barnard.  She  is  out  by  Ashpen 
Hill  a  little  after  four  in  the  summer  morning. 

'  Felise  sat  down  on  a  great  trunk  of  oak  lying  in  the 
lane  by  a  gateway,  and  sighed  with  very  depth  of  enjoy- 
ment. There  was  a  yellow-hammer  perched  on  the  gate, 
and  he  had  been  singing.  When  Felise  approached,  he 
ceased  ;  but  seeing  that  she  was  quiet  and  intended  him 


230       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

no  harm,  he  began  again.  His  four  or  five  rising  notes, 
and  the  long-drawn  idle-sounding  note  with  which  they 
conclude,  suited  so  well  with  the  sunshine,  they  soothed 
her  still  further.  She  sighed  again,  and  let  herself  sit 
loosely  on  the  oak-trunk,  like  the  yellow-hammer.  He 
had  his  back  humped,  and  all  his  body  rested  comfortably. 
So  did  she  ;  she  permitted  her  back  to  bow,  her  shoulders 
to  stoop,  her  limbs  to  relax,  and  idle  nature  to  have  her 
own  way.     After  a  while  she  sighed  again. 

'  She  was  bathing  in  the  beauty  of  the  morning — floating 
upheld  on  the  dewy  petals.  A  swimmer  lies  on  the  warm 
summer  water,  the  softest  of  couches,  extended  at  fuU 
length,  the  body  so  gently  held  that  it  undulates  slightly 
with  the  faint  swell.  So  soft  is  the  couch  it  softens  the 
frame,  which  becomes  supple,  flexible,  like  the  water  itself. 

'  Felise  was  lying  on  the  flowers  and  grass,  extended 
under  the  sun,  steeped  in  their  sweetness.  She  visibly 
sat  on  the  oak-trunk — invisibly  her  nature  was  reclining, 
as  the  swimmer  on  the  sun-warmed  sea.  Her  frame 
drooped  as  the  soul,  which  bears  it  up,  flowed  outwards, 
feeling  to  grass,  and  flower,  and  leaf,  as  the  swimmer 
spreads  the  arms  abroad,  and  the  fingers  feel  the  water. 
She  sighed  with  deep  content,  dissolving  in  the  luxurious 
bath  of  beauty. 

*  Her  strong  heart  beating,  the  pulses  throbbing,  her 
bosom  rising  and  regularly  sinking  with  the  rich  waves  of 
life  ;  her  supple  limbs  and  roundness  filled  with  the  plenty 
of  ripe  youth  ;  her  white,  soft,  roseate  skin,  the  surface 
where  the  sun  touched  her  hand  glistening  with  the  dew 
of  the  pore  ;  the  bloom  upon  her — that  glow  of  the  morn 
of  life — the  hair  more  lovely  than  the  sunlight  ;  the  grace 
unwritten  of  perfect  form — these  produced  within  her  a 
sense  of  existence — a  consciousness  of  being,  to  which  she 
was  abandoned  ;  and  her  lips  parted  to  sigh.  The  sigh 
was  the  expression  of  feeling  herself  to  be. 

'To  be  !  To  live  !  To  have  an  intense  enjoyment  in 
every  inspiration  of  breath  ;  in  every  beat  of  the  pulse  ; 
in  every  movement  of  the  limbs  ;  in  every  sense  ! 


•THE  DEWY  MORN'  231 

'  The  rugged  oak-trunk  was  pleasant  to  her.  She  placed 
her  hand  on  the  brown,  stained  wood — stained  with  its 
own  sap,  for  the  bark  had  been  removed.  She  touched 
it  ;  and  so  full  of  life  was  her  touch,  that  it  found  a  pleasure 
in  that  rude  wood.  The  brown  boulder-stone  in  the  lane, 
ancient,  smoothed,  and  ground  in  times  which  have 
vanished  like  a  cloud,  its  surface  the  colour  of  old  polished 
oak,  reflecting  the  sun  with  a  dull  gleam — the  very 
boulder-stone  was  pleasant  to  her,  so  full  of  life  was  her 
sense  of  sight. 

'  There  came  a  skylark,  dropping  over  the  hedge,  and 
alighted  on  a  dusty  level  spot  in  the  lane.  His  shadow 
shot  a  foot  long  on  the  dust,  thrown  by  the  level  beams  of 
the  sun.  The  dust,  in  shadow  and  sunshine — the  despised 
dust — now  that  the  lark  drew  her  glance  to  it,  was 
pleasant  to  see. 

'  All  things  are  joyously  beautiful  to  those  who  feel 
themselves  to  be  ;  but  it  is  only  given  to  the  chosen  of 
nature  to  know  this  exceeding  delight. 

'  In  herself  rapt,  the  whole  face  of  earth  and  sky 
ministered  to  her,  each  and  all  that  made  up  the  visible 
world  was  flung  at  her  feet.  They  did  homage — Felise, 
queen  of  herself,  was  queen  of  all. 

'  It  was  love  without  a  lover — love  absorbed  in  itself. 
Her  whole  existence  was  quivering  with  love  ;  this  in- 
tensity of  life  was  love.  She  was  gathering  from  sun- 
light, azure  sky  and  grassy  fields,  from  dewy  hills  and 
all  the  morning,  an  immense  strength  to  love.  Her 
parted  lips  sighed — there  was  such  store  and  warmth  of 
love  within  them.  Without  a  thought  she  thought  deeply, 
pondering,  weighed  down  on  herself  with  weight  of 
feeling.     Her  own  intense  existence  absorbed  her.  .  .  . 

'  There  was  nothing  large,  gigantic,  or  Amazonian 
about  her  ;  it  was  the  perfection  of  her  physical  nature, 
not  size  or  training.  Her  natural  body  had  been  further 
perfected  by  a  purely  natural  life.  The  wind,  the  sun, 
the  fields,  the  hills — freedom,  and  the  spirit  which  dwells 
among  these,  had  made  her  a  natural  woman  ;  such  a 

/ 


232       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

woman  as  Earth  meant  to  live  upon  her  surface,  and  as 
Earth  intended  in  the  first  origin  of  things  :  beauty  and 
strength — strength  and  beauty. 

'  What  a  latent  power  of  love  was  there  in  that  richness 
of  blood,  that  depth  of  chest,  that  greatness  of  heart ! 
Pure  love,  pure  as  the  spring-water  that  comes  from 
the  hills,  was  there  ready  to  be  poured  forth — always 
full,  always  pouring,  always  the  same  and  always 
pure.'* 

She  has  seen  Barnard  hardly  at  all,  and  only  a  short 
time  ago  for  the  first  time.  Long  before,  as  she  wandered 
over  the  hills,  her  heart  had  been  full  of  love  ;  meeting 
Barnard  is  only  the  outlet  for  that  love. 

'  As  she  had  roamed  about  the  hills,  and  wandered  in 
the  woods,  or  by  the  shore,  musing  in  deep  enjoyment 
of  the  sunlight  and  the  wind,  love  was  coursing  through 
each  vein,  filling  every  throb  of  her  heart.  It  was  this 
which  gave  such  beauty  to  the  flower,  such  colour  to  the 
sky,  such  pleasant  coolness  to  the  stream.  She  awoke 
to  it  in  the  morning  as  the  swallows  came  to  the  eave  by 
the  window  ;  they  had  been  coursing  long  before  through 
the  air  while  she  lay  sleeping. 

'  She  threw  open  her  window  and  breathed  it — the 
sweet  wind  from  the  meadows  brought  it.  All  day  the 
sunlight  poured  it  forth  upon  the  green  grass  and  rustling 
leaves  ;  she  moved  in  it  as  she  moved  in  the  sunbeams. 
By  night  it  was  with  her.  An  inexpressible  fulness  of 
passion  grew  in  her  breast. 

'  But  could  this  be  ?  Could  anyone  love  without  an 
object  ?  Is  it  possible  for  the  heart  to  become  full  and 
yet  without  an  image  ?  Not  perhaps  with  a  small  nature, 
a  narrow  mind,  a  stunted  being.  With  all  great  hearts 
and  true  women  it  is  always  the  case  ;  they  love  first  in 
themselves,  they  love  without  knowing  why,  or  whom — 
it  is  their  very  life.  If  such  a  great  and  noble  woman  were 
enclosed  in  a  prison  from  youth,  and  permitted  no  sight 
of  man,  still  to  the  end  of  existence  she  would  love.  The 
*   The  Deivy  Morn. 


'THE  DEWY  MORN'  233 

divine  flame  lighted  in  her  with  life  would  burn  on  to  the 
last  moment. 

'  Felise's  heart  was  lost  before  she  saw  him.  She  lost 
it  amid  the  flowers  of  the  meadow,  the  wind  on  the  hill,  by 
the  rushing  stream.  She  lost  it  in  her  study  among  her 
books,  her  poetry  of  old  Greece — songs  of  the  '  Violet 
Land  ' — her  '  Odyssey  '  and  dramas  of  Sophocles  and 
iEschylus  ;  among  the  stars  that  swept  by  over  the  hill ; 
by  the  surge  that  ran  up  and  kissed  her  feet.  The  pointed 
grass  stole  it  from  her  ;  the  fresh  leaves  of  spring  demanded 
it  ;  all  things  beautiful  took  it  from  her.  Her  heart  was 
lost  long  since. 

*  The  streamlet  in  the  woods  is  full  before  the  dove 
alights  to  drink  at  it  ;  the  flow^er  in  the  grass  has  expanded 
before  the  butterfly  comes.  A  great  passion  does  not 
leap  into  existence  as  violets  sprang  up  beneath  the  white 
feet  of  Aphrodite.  It  has  grown  first.  The  grapes  have 
ripened  in  the  sun  before  they  are  plucked  for  wine. 

'  Her  vigour  of  life  was  very  great  ;  yet  it  was  not  that 
that  sent  her  to  the  fields  and  woods,  to  the  hill-top  and 
the  shore  ;  nor  the  abounding  physical  vigour  which 
forced  her  broad  chest  through  the  clear  green  sea  ;  nor 
the  strong  muscle  hidden  in  the  rounded  arm  which  drove 
her  boat  over  the  waves.  The  soul  that  inspired  the  effort 
was  the  love  that  was  growing  within  her.'* 

She  walks,  she  runs,  she  swims,  she  rows,  the  fine 
flower  of  all  that  Wiltshire  downland  to  which  the  novelist 
has  added  the  sea.  Her  heart  '  put  a  feeling  '  into  what- 
ever she  saw  ;  she  brought  the  beauty  to  them.  This  is, 
perhaps,  one  of  Jefferies'  inconsistencies.  He  had  no 
system,  and  he  was  not  always  studied  in  his  expressions. 
I  do  not  think  he  means  that  there  was  no  beauty 
there  before,  but  rather  that  she,  the  supreme  expression 
of  natural  beauty,  came  to  the  fields  and  the  hills  as  the 
dawn  to  set  free  a  spirit  already  there.  It  is  incon- 
ceivable to  me  that  such  joy  as  hers  and  that  of  other 
lovers  in  the  presence  of  Nature  should  be  merely  as  a 

*  The  Denvy  Morn. 


234      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

perfume  or  a  sound  that  fills  a  senseless  hall  for  a  short 
time.  That  joy  is  rather  the  discovery  of  sympathies  and 
affinities,  heaven  high,  ocean  deep,  and  wide  as  the 
world.  Felise  emerges  dominant  from  the  expanse  of 
living  things  because  she  is  human,  but  to  say  that  she 
brings  them  their  beauty  is  as  if  a  mole  were  to  announce 
that  upon  his  mounds  were  based  the  pillars  that  upheld 
the  firmament.  No,  she  bears  gifts  of  beauty  about  with 
her  to  flower  and  clod  and  cloud  only  in  the  sense  that 
she  illuminates  them  for  herself  and  her  lover,  and  that 
through  her  all  created  things  are  gladdened  because  in 
her  the  divine,  which  they  also  partake,  riots  unwontedly  ; 
through  her  they  speak  and  have  new  life.  Jefferies 
speaks  more  accurately  when  he  says  that  until  Barnard 
came  the  land  was  incomplete  ;  he  gave  a  meaning  to  it ; 
and  *  she  endowed  him  with  all  that  she  perceived  in  the 
glory  and  mystery  around  her  by  day  and  night.' 
Nature's  reception  of  Felise  makes  these  opening  chapters 
comparable,  for  their  sensuous  and  holy  delight,  with  few 
things  except  the  '  Epithalamion  '  of  Spenser  and  the  love 
scene  between  Esla  and  Cloten  in  the  tenth  book  of  '  The 
Dawn  in  Britain.' 

But  the  spiritual  blitheness  is  not  found  only  where 
Felise  is  wandering,  like  Jefferies,  alone  and  a  lover.  It 
is  allied  in  its  warmth  to  Titian's  '  Venus  and  Adonis,'  and 
has  also  a  real  dramatic  value,  in  this  scene  where  Felise, 
as  yet  all  but  a  stranger  to  Barnard,  has  compelled  him  to 
stop  and  speak  to  her  when  he  is  riding  on  the  Downs. 
They  can  talk  but  awkwardly  ;  she  looks  straight  in  his 
face,  but  he  avoids  her  ;  she  strokes  his  horse. 

'  He  could  not  help  but  look,  at  the  sound  of  his  name. 
He  saw  a  face  full  of  wistful  meaning  upturned  to  him. 
Her  golden  hair  had  strayed  a  little  on  her  forehead,  three 
or  four  glistening  threads  wandered  over  it,  asking  some 
loving  hand  to  smooth  them  back.  The  white  brow 
without  a  stain,  a  mark,  a  line  ;  no  kiss  there  but  must  be 
purified  by  the  touch  ;  it  was  an  altar  which  could  not  be 
tainted — which  would  turn  taint  to  purity.     Large  grey 


'THE  DEWY  MORN'  235 

eyes  that  seemed  to  see  him  only — to  whom  the  whole 
world,  the  hills  round  them,  the  sky  over,  was  not — eyes 
that  drew  his  towards  them,  and  held  his  vision  in  defiance 
of  his  will.  If  once  you  look  over  the  side  of  a  boat  into 
the  clear  sea,  you  must  continue  looking — the  depth 
fascinates  the  mind.  Some  depth  in  her  rapt  gaze 
fascinated  him. 

'  Her  eyebrows  arched — not  too  much  arched — the 
curve  of  the  cheek,  roseate,  almost  but  not  quite  smiling, 
carried  his  thought  downwards  to  her  breathing  lips. 
Her  lips  were  apart,  rich,  dewy,  curved  ;  they  kissed  him 
by  their  expression,  if  not  in  deed.  In  that  instant  his 
heart  throbbed  violently  ;  the  beat  rose  to  thrice  its  usual 
rate. 

'  The  first  moment  of  awaking  to  a  happy  morning,  the 
daylight  that  means  a  joyful  event ;  the  first  view  of  the 
sea  in  youth,  when  the  blue  expanse  brings  tears  to  the 
eyes — in  these  there  is  some  parallel  to  the  sudden,  the 
extreme,  and  the  delicious  feeling  that  shot  through  him. 
To  reach  the  ideal  of  human  happiness  it  is  necessary  to  be 
for  the  moment  unconscious  of  all,  except  the  cause.  For 
that  moment  he  had  no  consciousness  except  of  her,  such 
was  the  power  of  her  passion  glowing  in  her  face. 

'  Even  Felise,  eager  to  retain  him  with  her,  and  un- 
hesitatingly employing  every  means,  could  not  maintain 
that  gaze.  Unabashed  and  bold  with  love,  she  was  too 
true,  too  wholly  his,  to  descend  to  any  art.  Her  gaze, 
passionate  as  it  was,  was  natural  and  unstudied  ;  therefore 
it  could  not  continue.  Her  eyes  drooped,  and  he  was 
released. 

'  Immediately,  as  if  stung  to  a  sense  of  his  honour,  he 
placed  his  hands  on  the  horse,  sprang  up,  and  seated 
himself. 

'  "  I — I  have  much  to  do,"  he  said,  embarrassed  to  the 
last  degree,  and  holding  out  his  hand. 

'  She  would  not  see  it.  She  took  the  bridle,  and  stroked 
Ruy's  neck,  placing  her  cheek  almost  against  the  glossy 
skin.     Obeying  the  pressure  of  his  knee,  Ruy  began  to 


236      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

move  slowly.  She  walked  beside  him,  holding  the  bridle  ; 
but  Riiy's  long  stride  soon  threatened  to  leave  her  behind. 
For  very  shame,  he  could  not  but  stay.  At  a  touch  Ruy 
halted.  She  looked  up  at  him  ;  he  carefully  avoided  her 
glance.  The  horse,  growing  restless,  began  to  move  again; 
again,  for  courtesy's  sake,  he  was  compelled  to  check  him. 
Not  a  word  had  been  spoken  while  this  show  was  pro- 
ceeding. 

'  Barnard's  face  grew  hot  with  impatience,  or  embarrass- 
ment, or  a  sense  that  he  was  doing  wrong  in  some  manner 
not  at  the  moment  apparent.  Sideways,  she  saw  his 
glowing  cheek.  It  only  inflamed  her  heart  the  more  ;  the 
bright  colour,  like  the  scarlet  tints  in  a  picture,  lit  up  his 
face.  Next  he  controlled  himself,  and  forced  his  features 
and  attitude  to  an  impassive  indifference.  He  would  sit 
like  a  statue  till  it  pleased  her  to  let  him  go.  Ruy  pulled 
hard  to  get  his  neck  free  that  he  might  feed  again. 

'  She  stooped  and  gathered  him  some  grass  and  gave  it 
to  him.  Twice  she  fed  him.  Barnard  remained  silent 
and  impassive.  Still  not  a  word  between  them.  The 
third  time  she  gathered  a  handful  of  grass  ;  as  she  rose 
her  shoulder  brushed  his  knee.  She  stood  there,  and  did 
not  move.  Her  warm  shoulder  just  touched  him,  no 
more  ;  her  golden  hair  was  very  near.  She  drew  over  a 
tuft  of  Ruy's  mane,  and  began  to  deftly  plait  it.  Barnard's 
face,  in  defiance  of  himself,  flushed  scarlet  ;  his  very  ears 
burned.  He  stole  half  a  glance  sideways  ;  how  lovely  her 
roseate  cheek,  the  threads  of  her  golden  hair,  against  the 
bay's  neck  !  Ruy  was  turning  his  nostrils  round  to 
touch  her,  and  ask  for  more  grass.  She  swiftly  plaited 
his  mane. 

'  At  that  moment  another  horse  neighed  over  the  hill  ; 
they  both  looked  round — no  one  was  in  sight.  But  Ruy 
answered  with  a  neigh,  and  in  the  same  instant  stepped 
forward.  Barnard  pressed  his  knee  ;  Ruy  began  to  move 
faster.  Barnard  bowed ;  his  voice  was  temporarily 
inarticulate,  and  he  was  gone.'* 

*   The  Dewy  Morn. 


I 


'THE  DEWY  MORN'  237 

There  are  at  least  three  other  passages  between  FeHse 
and  Barnard  which  would  be  enough  to  place  this  fiction 
very  high  in  spite  of  some  awkwardness,  as  in  the  steps  to 
marriage  after  the  crisis  of  the  book. 

The  second  passage  is  where  Barnard,  admiring  but 
not  yet  loving  Felise,  hides  in  the  bracken  by  the  bathing- 
pool,  and,  watching  Felise,  is  constrained  to  remain  hidden 
while  she  unexpectedly  bathes  before  his  eyes.  In 
'  Nature  in  the  Louvre  '  and  in  '  The  Story  of  My  Heart  ' 
Jefferies  has  written  of  the  nude  with  something  beyond 
and  above  idolatry.  The  hip,  the  breast,  the  flank,  the 
back,  the  limbs,  are  dear  to  eye  and  heart ;  they  are  loved 
for  their  humanity  ;  and  he  gives  them  a  universal  sig- 
nificance, and  links  them  to  the  sunlight  and  the  hills  and 
the  sea.  He  found  '  the  idea  of  perfect  human  beauty — 
the  idea  of  shape  and  curve  and  motion  '  in  the  writers 
of  Greece,  '  even  those  of  pure  thought.'  His  attitude 
towards  this  beauty  is  Greek,  and  it  is  more  than  Greek, 
something  more  than  Greek  which  I  can  only  suggest  by 
saying  that  there  is  a  feminine  element  in  it  which  the 
Greek  never  had.  It  is  sensuous,  without  the  bold  flesh- 
liness  of  Shakespeare's  '  Venus  and  Adonis,'  without  the 
headiness  of  Keats'  '  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,'  without  Pater's 
languor.  The  whole  passage  should  be  compared  with 
that  describing  the  similar  scene  of  Damon  and  Musidora 
in  Thomson's  '  Summer,'  to  which  the  stamp  of  a 
more  worldly  nature  has  given  a  different  charm. 
Of  shame  there  is  not  a  touch,  in  Jefferies  or  in  his 
reader. 

'  Felise  opened  the  door  of  the  bathing-room,  and 
stepped  out  upon  the  platform  before  it.  She  stood  in 
the  shadow  of  the  beeches  behind  ;  all  the  rest  of  the 
pool  was  in  bright  light.  Her  bathing-tunic  was  blue, 
bordered  with  white,  and  fringed  with  gold — such  a  tunic 
as  might  have  been  worn  by  a  Grecian  maiden. 

'  It  was  loose  about  her  shoulders :  they  were  nearly 
bare  ;  her  arms  quite  so.  In  the  shade  the  whiteness 
and  purity  of  her  skin  was  wonderfully  beautiful.      It 


238      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

gleamed  in  the  cool  shade,  more  so  than  the  yellow 
iris  flowers,  though  they  had  the  advantage  of  bright 
colour. 

'  The  beauty  of  a  perfect  skin  is  so  great,  to  gaze  at  it 
is  happiness.  The  world  holds  no  enjoyment  like  the  view 
of  beauty. 

'  Her  white  feet  were  at  the  very  edge  of  the  dull 
boards,  so  that  her  reflection  was  complete  in  the  water 
had  anyone  been  looking  from  the  opposite  shore.  She 
put  up  her  hands  to  settle  the  strings  of  pearls  in  her  hair, 
to  make  certain  that  they  would  not  come  loose.  It  was 
Felise's  fancy  to  wear  her  pearls — her  only  jewellery  and 
dowry — when  she  bathed  out  of  doors  in  the  sunshine. 
She  decked  herself  for  the  bath — the  bath  not  only  in 
water,  but  in  the  air  and  light — as  if  she  had  been  going 
to  a  temple  in  the  ancient  times. 

'  With  her  hands  employed  at  the  back  of  her  head  and 
arms  raised,  the  contour  of  her  form  was  accentuated. 
The  deep  broad  chest,  the  bust,  the  hips,  filled  out.  The 
action  of  lifting  the  arms  in  this  manner  opens  the  ribs, 
decreases  the  waist,  slightly  curves  the  back,  and  extends 
and  develops  every  line.  A  sculptor  should  have  chosen 
her  in  such  an  attitude. 

'  In  a  moment,  lifting  her  hands  and  joining  them  high 
above  her  head,  she  dived — the  pearls  glistened  as  she 
passed  out  of  the  shadow  into  the  sunlight,  and  the  water 
hid  her  completely. 

'  The  dove  flew,  startled  from  his  branch  in  the  beech  ; 
a  swallow  that  had  been  coming  to  drink,  as  he  flew, 
mounted  again  into  the  air. 

'  She  rose  at  some  distance  from  the  diving-platform, 
and  immediately  struck  out  slowly,  swimming  on  her 
chest.  Her  chin  was  well  out  of  water,  and  sometimes 
her  neck  ;  her  chest  held  so  large  a  volume  of  air  that  she 
was  as  buoyant  as  a  water-bird.  It  needed  no  effort  to 
keep  afloat ;  all  her  strength  was  at  liberty  to  be  used  in 
propulsion.  Swimming  towards  the  hatch,  presently  she 
turned  and  came  back  to  the  platform,  then  out  again  into 


'THE  DEWY  MORN'  239 

the  centre  of  the  pool,  where  she  floated,  dived  under,  and 
floated  again. 

*  Gathering  energy  from  practice  and  the  touch  of  the 
water,  she  now  swam  on  her  side,  following  the  margin  of 
the  pool  all  round,  so  as  to  have  a  larger  course.  Twice 
she  went  round  without  a  pause — swimming  her  swiftest, 
equal,  in  a  direct  line,  to  several  hundred  yards.  Still 
joying  in  the  sunlight  and  the  water,  she  continued  again 
for  the  third  circle.  Her  passage  was  even  swifter,  her 
vigour  grew  with  the  labour. 

'  The  water  drew  back  the  tunic  from  her  right  shoulder, 
which  shone  almost  at  the  surface  ;  her  white  right  arm 
swept  backwards,  grasping  the  wave ;  her  left  arm  was 
concealed,  being  under  her,  and  deeper.  It  is  the  fastest, 
the  easiest,  and  the  most  graceful  mode  of  swimming.  In 
the  moment  when  her  rounded  right  arm  was  sweeping 
backwards,  clearly  visible  in  the  limpid  water^ — just  as 
the  stroke  was  nearly  completed — the  sculptor  might  again 
have  obtained  an  inspiration.  For  at  that  moment  there 
was  repose  in  action,  the  exertion  of  the  stroke  finishing, 
the  form  gliding  easily,  the  left  cheek  resting  as  if  reposing 
on  the  surface. 

'  At  the  completion  of  the  third  round,  Felise  swam  to 
the  shallow  grassy  shore,  where  Shaw  was  now  waiting 
for  her. 

'  "  Oh,  how  you  do  panck  !"  (pant),  said  Shaw,  laugh- 
ing, as  Felise  walked  up  out  of  the  water  on  to  the  turf, 
and  sat  down  at  the  edge  of  the  shadow  of  the  beech. 
Her  breast  was  heaving  with  the  labour,  her  deep  grey 
eyes  shone  as  if  enlarged  ;  there  was  a  slight  increase  of 
colour  in  her  face.  She  was  not  in  the  least  exhausted  ; 
she  was  exhilarated  to  the  utmost.  Shaw  chatted 
beside  her  ;  Felise  neither  heard  nor  heeded  :  she  was 
full  of  the  influence  of  the  air  and  light  and  limpid 
fountain. 

'  There  was  something  almost  sacred  to  her  in  the 
limpid  water,  in  the  sweet  air,  and  the  light  of  day.  The 
flower  in  the  grass  was  not  only  colour,  it  was  alive.     The 


240      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

water  was  not  merely  a  smooth  surface,  the  air  not  merely 
an  invisible  current,  the  light  not  merely  illumination. 
As  if  they  had  been  living  powers,  so  they  influenced  her. 
A  feeling  entered  her  from  them  :  the  light,  the  air,  the 
water,  the  soft  sward  on  which  her  hand  rested,  life  came 
to  her  from  them. 

'  With  them  she  felt  her  own  life,  she  knew  her  own 
fulness  of  existence.  Like  this  the  maidens  of  ancient 
Greece  sang  to  the  stream  when  they  filled  their  urns. 
Even  Socrates  the  wisest  sat  pondering  in  reverence  by 
the  stream.  Felise  was  full  of  the  delicious  influence  of  the 
great  powers  of  nature.  This  susceptibility  rendered  her 
love  so  rich  and  deep. 

'  She  sat  leaning  on  her  left  hand,  her  knees  lying  side- 
ways, and  her  right  hand  on  her  ankle  ;  the  upper  part  of 
her  form  in  shadow,  her  limbs  in  the  brilliant  light.  The 
beams  fell  on  her  white  rounded  knees  ;  the  right  knee 
being  uppermost  was  entirely  in  light,  but  it  cast  a  partial 
shadow  on  the  left  one. 

'  Twins  in  exquisite  whiteness  and  shape  they  reposed 
together,  the  under  one  a  little  in  advance.  The  knee- 
cap (which  in  woman  is  small),  slipping  naturally  aside, 
left  a  space  on  the  summit  of  each  knee  smooth  and  almost 
level,  perhaps  in  the  least  degree  concave.  Upon  these 
lovely  surfaces  the  light  rested  lovingly  ;  in  the  wide  earth 
there  was  no  spot  the  sun  loved  so  well. 

'  The  rounded  supple  knee  is  where  the  form  hinges  ; 
there  all  is  poised.  They  are  the  centres  from  which 
beauty  rises.  With  the  knee  all  grace  begins  ;  they  bend, 
and  at  the  same  moment  the  neck  bows,  and  the  forehead 
droops.  Resting  on  them  firmly  the  shape  rises,  the  neck 
is  straightened,  and  the  brow  thrown  back.  All  is  poised 
on  the  knee. 

'  Because  of  its  varying  mood  of  grace  the  knee  can  with 
difficulty  be  seized  in  sculpture  or  painting.  The  least 
flexure  alters  the  contour.  Now  from  head  to  foot  it  is 
the  flesh  that  is  beautiful,  that  which  covers  and  conceals 
the  bones  and  muscles  under  its  texture.     Such  is  the  rule, 


JAMES    l.UCKETT    JEKKKRIES, 
the  father  of  Richard  Jefferies. 


'  THE  DEWY  MORN  '  241 

to  express  beauty  you  must  delineate  the  adipose  tissue  ; 
the  knee  is  the  exception. 

'  Here  the  bone — the  knee-cap — is  but  thinly  covered, 
and  there  is  cartilage  and  sinew  ;  not  much  more  than  the 
skin  hides  them.  Here  is  the  only  place  where  the  bone 
and  sinew  can  approach  the  surface — can  be  recognized — 
and  yet  not  interfere  with  the  sense  of  loveliness.  Why 
so  ? 

'  Because  at  this  centre  motion  commences  ;  the  idea  of 
motion  is  inseparable  from  it,  motion  in  graceful  lines. 
In  walking  it  is  the  knee  that  gives  the  step,  in  the  dance, 
stooping  to  gather  flowers,  bending  to  prayer  ;  from  the 
knee  passion  springs  to  the  arms  of  her  lover.  We  have 
seen  these  movements  and  admired  them,  and  the  eye 
transfers  their  grace  to  the  knee. 

'  But  it  is  also  of  itself  shaped.  There  alone  the  bone 
and  sinew  assume  an  exquisite  form.  I  cannot  tell  you 
why  the  human  heart  yearns  towards  that  which  is 
rounded,  smooth,  shapely  ;  it  is  an  instinct  in  the  depth 
of  our  nature. 

'  The  knee  is  so  very  human,  so  nearly  sorrowful  in  its 
humanity  ;  sorrow  seeks  its  knees,  sadness  bends  on  them, 
love  desiring  in  secret  does  so  on  its  knees.  They  have 
been  bent  in  many  moods  in  so  many  lands  so  many  many 
centuries  past.  Human  life  is  centred  in  the  knee.  In 
the  knee  we  recognize  all  that  the  heart  has  experienced. 

'  Beautiful  knees,  the  poise  and  centre  of  the  form  ! 
Were  I  rich,  how  gladly  I  would  give  a  thousand  pounds 
for  a  true  picture  of  the  knee  !  and  if  the  coloured  shadow 
on  canvas  were  worth  so  much,  how  many  times  multiplied 
the  value  of  the  original  reality  ! 

'  However  indifferent  the  person  may  be — the  individual 
— to  see  the  knee  is  to  love  it  for  itself. 

'  The  shadow  of  the  upper  one  partially  encroached  on 
the  lower  ;  round  about  the  under  knee,  too,  the  short 
grass  rose.  Immediately  behind,  the  least  way  higher 
than  the  upper  knee,  the  bullion  fringe  of  the  tunic 
drooped  across  the  white  skin.     Her  left  hand  rested 

16 


242      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

among  the  daisies  ;  her  feet  reached  nearly  to  some  golden 
lotus  flowers. 

'  The  left,  or  under  foot,  was  much  hidden  by  the  grass  ; 
the  grass  touched  warm,  having  been  hours  in  the  sun- 
shine. The  upper  foot  was  visible,  and  two  straight 
strokes — two  parallel  dimples  crossed  the  large  toe  (the 
thumb  of  the  foot)  at  the  second  joint, 

*  She  held  her  anlde  lightly  with  her  right  hand,  so  that 
her  right  arm  descended  beside  her  body.  Bare  from  the 
shoulder  in  its  luxurious  fulness,  it  reposed  against  her. 
The  slight  pressure  of  its  ovmi  weight  enlarged  it  midway 
between  the  shoulder  and  the  elbow.  But  the  left  arm 
being  straightened  appeared,  on  the  contrary,  largest  at 
the  shoulder. 

'  That  shoulder — the  left — raised  a  little  higher  than 
the  other,  on  account  of  her  position,  was  partly  bare, 
the  tunic  having  slipped  somewhat.  Unconsciously  she 
pressed  her  cheek  against  it,  feeling  and  caressing  it.  Her 
shoulder  lifted  itself  a  little  to  meet  the  embrace  of  her 
cheek,  and  the  tunic  slipped  still  more,  giving  it  and  that 
side  of  her  bust  freedom  to  the  air.  She  liked  to  feel  her- 
self ;  the  soft  skin  of  the  shoulder  met  the  softer  cheek  ; 
her  lips  touched  the  place  where  arm  and  shoulder  are 
about  to  mingle. 

'  Shaw  thought  Felise  had  finished  bathing,  and 
kneeling  behind  her,  undid  her  hair,  which  fell  and  reached 
the  grass.  It  was  somewhat  wavy,  very  thick  and  long, 
and  delicate  in  texture.  As  it  descended  it  concealed  the 
beautiful  shoulders  like  a  mantle.  She  took  her  strings  of 
pearls  from  Shaw,  and  held  them  in  her  right  hand  ;  she 
valued  them  greatly,  and  scarcely  cared  to  let  even  Shaw 
carry  them. 

'  A  red  butterfly  came  by  and  hovered  about  her  knee, 
inclined  to  alight,  but  perceiving  that  it  glistened  with 
the  water,  flew  onwards  over  the  pool. 

'  Felise  moved  her  feet  among  the  grass,  she  liked  to 
feel  it ;  she  extended  her  foot  to  the  golden  lotus  flowers. 
But  the  moment  of  luxurious  enjoyment  of  the  sunlight 


'THE  DEWY  MORN'  243 

and  the  air,  the  hberty  of  the  tunic,  was  over  ;  her  active 
nature  reasserted  itself  ;  she  rose  and  walked  towards  the 
bathing  apartment  to  dress. 

'  "  There's  a  rabbit  in  the  ferns,"  said  Shaw,  following 
her  ;  "  I  heard  him  rustle  twice.  Wonder  why  you  won't 
talk  to-day,  now.  If  I  was  to  run  round  the  water  like 
you  swim  round,  I  should  die  of  pancking  [panting],  I 
should." 

'  She  looked  as  if  such  exertion  would  overcome  her  : 
short,  plump,  and  merry. 

'  Felise  took  no  heed  of  Shaw's  chatter  ;  she  was  think- 
ing how  to  accomplish  her  resolution.'* 

The  liberty  of  innocence  has  hardly  reached  beyond 
that.  Barnard  watching  Felise,  like  Geoffrey  in  '  Greene 
Feme  Farm  '  watching  Margaret  with  '  the  devotion  of  an 
artist,'  suggests  a  coldness,  as  of  the  sea,  in  the  volup- 
tuousness, peculiar,  perhaps,  to  Jefferies  himself. 

The  third  passage  is  chapter  xli.,  one  of  the  richest 
pastoral  pictures  in  English,  though  pastoral  is  a  poor 
word  to  use  of  such  realism  in  the  portraits  and  the  back- 
ground. The  August  thunder  booms  far  off  at  sea  ;  the 
reapers  reap  in  the  brilliant  sun  ;  and  the  lovers  sit  and 
look  out  upon  the  land  :  '  Let  us  not  outlive  love  in  our 
days,  and  come  to  look  back  with  sorrow  on  those  times. 
You  have  seen  the  ships  upon  the  sea  ;  they  sail  hither  and 
thither  thousands  of  miles.  Do  they  find  aught  equal  to 
love  ?  Can  they  bring  back  precious  gems  to  rival  it 
from  the  rich  south  ?'  There  is  no  pastoral  picture  like 
it  for  the  beauty  of  human  passion  and  the  abundance 
and  sympathy  of  Nature  round  about. 

The  fourth  passage  is  in  the  last  pages  of  all.  Felise  and 
Martial  were  married  ;  '  the  man  slept ;  the  woman,  wake- 
ful in  her  happiness,  stole  to  the  window  where  she  had  so 
often  sat  of  old  time.'  It  was  early  in  a  morning  of  May, 
and  the  contented  woman  is  drawn  against  the  vast 
loveliness  of  dawn.  '  A  pure  rest  had  come  to  her  life. 
Except  to  love  and  to  love  fulfilled,  and  then  only  to 

*   The  Dewy  Mprn. 

16 — 2 


244      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

woman,  is  such  rest  ever  given.  For  the  heart,  and  the 
hand,  and  the  mind  of  a  man  are  for  ever  driving  onwards, 
and  no  profundity  of  rest  ever  comes  to  his  inmost 
consciousness.  At  dawn  he  looks  forward  to  the  noon- 
day.' Fehse  did  not  look  forward,  but  '  her  heart 
brimmed  to  the  full  of  love.'  In  this  passage  Jefferies 
has  divined  one  of  the  clearest  divisions  between  man 
and  woman,  whilst  making  a  picture  of  great  beauty 
that  completes  the  portrait  of  Felise's  youth. 

The  book  is  a  portrait  of  Felise,  Martial  Barnard  is  not 
as  essential  to  the  book,  nor  as  interesting  to  Jefferies  : 

'  Comparatively  his  face  was  small  for  his  height  ;  he 
was  not  all  face,  as  we  see  some  men,  whose  countenances 
seem  to  descend  to  the  last  button  of  their  waistcoats. 
His  head  was  in  just  proportion,  the  summit  and  finish 
of  his  shape,  as  a  capital  of  a  column.  His  hair  had  a 
shade  like  the  gold  of  Felise's,  yet  not  in  the  least  like 
hers,  for  his  was  deeper,  browner,  as  if  the  sun  had  burnt 
it,  as  it  had  his  cheek.  Had  it  not  been  cropped  so  close, 
his  hair  would  have  curled  ;  in  the  days  of  Charles  II.  such 
hair  would  have  been  of  priceless  value  to  a  cavalier, 
curled  locks  flowing  to  the  shoulder. 

'  In  outline  his  countenance  was  somewhat  oval,  his 
features  fine — a  straight  nose  and  chin  well  marked,  but 
not  heavy.  He  had  a  short  beard,  and  his  head  showed 
the  more  to  advantage,  because  he  had  a  good  neck,  not 
too  thick.  His  eyes  were  blue,  and  framed  in  firmly- 
drawTi  eyebrows  and  long  lashes.  Though  well  built,  he 
was  slender  rather  than  stout  ;  his  hands  were  brown, 
but  not  large.' 

He  is  revealed  in  many  ways,  as  when  he  talks  of 
Shakespeare  with  his  sweetheart ;  but  he  is  the  intellectual 
side  of  Jefferies  himself,  the  emotional  having  been  ex- 
hausted in  the  character  of  Felise.  It  is  the  Jefferies  of 
1883  who  makes  the  bold  speech  against  the  Cornleigh 
interest,  saying  that '  there  does  not  exist  a  race  of  freemen 
on  the  face  of  the  earth  who  have  been  so  completely  under 
the  thumb  as  farmers  ' ;  that  '  there  never  will  be  any 


•THE  DEWY  MORN'  245 

more  prosperity  in  English  agriculture  till  the  entire 
system  is  revised  ;  till  a  man  can  cultivate  the  land  free 
from  vexatious  hindrances,  medieval  hindrances,  super- 
stitious hindrances,  and  burdens  such  as  tithes,  ordinary 
and  extraordinary  '  ;  that  the  Church  is  '  a  huge  octopus  ' ; 
and,  finally,  that  he  has  '  done  with  the  steward,  with  the 
solicitor,  with  the  parson,  with  the  gardener,  and  the 
gamekeeper  .  .  .  with  the  groom,  and  the  whole  circle  of 
despicable  sycophants.'  There  has  been  a  change  since 
'  Hodge  and  His  Masters.'  It  is  noticeable  everywhere, 
and  nowhere  so  much  as  where  he  speaks  again  of  the 
peasant's  ingratitude  :  '  for  one  act  of  kindness  in  eighty 
years,  why  should  they  feel  grateful  ?'  The  labourer 
'  must  still  be  a  serf,'  he  says,  when  he  can  be  turned  out 
of  employment  and  home  at  once.  He  has  become  as 
bitter  against  things  as  they  are  ordained  by  the  land- 
owners as  he  used  to  be  against  their  opponents  ;  he  is 
pleased  with  what  he  called  '  the  deep  etching  '  in  his 
description  of  the  Cornleigh  estate,  where  if  a  girl  has  an 
illegitimate  child  she  and  her  parents,  or  whoever  lives 
with  her,  have  to  leave  the  cottage  ;  for  *  the  rulers  at  the 
House,  whether  the  haughty  ladies  or  their  shaven  advisers, 
looked  with  such  sacerdotal  horror  upon  this  inexpiable 
crime  that  nothing  less  than  absolute  extinction  could 
suffice.'  '  Why,'  he  asks,  '  should  any  one  person  possess 
the  power  to  issue  such  a  ukase  ?  They  do  possess  the 
power,  and  will  do  so  while  nine-tenths  of  each  agricul- 
tural hamlet  are  at  the  absolute  disposal  of  the  proprietor 
of  the  soil.'  He  has  nothing  to  say  against  the  Ballot 
Act  now.  Ridiculing  Laetitia  Cornleigh's  scheme  for 
'  The  Encouragement  of  Art  Culture  in  the  Homes  of  the 
Poor,'  he  says  true  things  about  Art  : 

'  For  the  enjoyment  of  art  it  is  first  of  all  necessary  to 
have  a  full  belly. 

'  May  I  inquire,  too,  of  any  painter,  if  such  chances  to 
light  on  these  pages,  whether  he  would  consider  it  likely 
to  encourage  a  love  of  art  merely  to  hang  a  picture  on  a 
wall  ?  whether  he  has  not  known  even  well-educated  and 


246      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

wealthy  people  who  possessed  scores  of  valuable  pictures 
without  the  least  love  of  art  ?  whether,  in  short,  even  he, 
a  painter  of  pictures,  considered  pictures  the  whole  end 
and  aim  of  art  ? 

'  Is  not  art  rather  in  the  man  than  on  the  wall  ? 

'  Once  now  and  then  I  have  been  into  the  cottages  of 
farm  labourers  (who  had  the  good  fortune  to  possess 
security  of  tenure)  and  found  old  oak  furniture  ;  curious 
grotesque  crockery,  generally  much  coloured — the  favour- 
ite colour  red  ;  ancient  brazen-faced  upright  clocks  ticking 
slowly,  as  the  stars  go  slowly  past  in  the  quiet  hours  of 
night ;  odd  things  on  the  mantelpiece  ;  an  old  gun  with 
brass  fittings,  polished  brass  ornaments  ;  two  or  three  old 
books  with  leather  bindings  ;  on  the  walls  quaint  smoke- 
tinted  pictures  three-score  years  old. 

'  Outside,  trees  in  the  garden — plums,  pears,  damsons — 
trees  planted  by  the  owner  for  fruit  and  shade,  but 
mostly  for  solace,  since  it  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  see  a  tree 
grow.  These  people,  having  no  fear  of  being  turned  out 
of  doors,  had  accumulated  such  treasures,  a  chair  at  a 
time,  making  the  interior  home-like.  And  out  of  doors 
they  had  planted  trees  ;  without  love  of  trees,  I  doubt  if 
there  be  any  art.  Of  art  itself  in  itself  they  had  had  no 
thought ;  not  one  had  ever  tried  to  draw  or  paint.  They 
had  coloured  their  strips  of  flower-garden  or  bordering 
with  bright  yellow  flowers  ;  that  was  all  the  paint  they 
knew. 

'  Yet  I  think  this  home-life  in  itself  was  something  like 
true  art.  There  was  a  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things,  and 
good  instinctive  taste  in  the  selection  of  interior  fittings, 
furniture,  and  even  of  colour. 

'  Oak  is  our  national  wood,  old  oak,  dark  and  deep- 
shaded — Rembrandt  oak — oak  is  part  of  our  national  art. 
Brass  polishes  and  gleams  in  sunlight  through  the  window 
or  glows  in  the  sparkle  from  winter's  fire.  It  sets  off  the 
black  oak.  Red-coloured  chinaware  (perhaps  it  is  a  shade 
of  pink)  is  gay  and  bright  under  low-pitched  ceilings  with 
dark  wood  beams  and  no  white  ceiling.     Yellow  flowers 


•  THE  DEWY  MORN  '  247 

light  up  the  brown  mould.  Altogether  a  realistic  picture 
painted  in  actual  dark  oak,  actual  brass,  actual  red  c  ina, 
and  actual  yellow  flowers. 

'  Here  then  there  was  art  in  the  man.  Can  you  put 
that  taste  in  by  hanging  a  picture  on  the  wall  ?  Letitia's 
pictures  were  chiefly  of  the  pre-Raphaelite  ecclesiastical 
order — saints,  saints'  lives  and  deaths,  such  as  were 
painted  in  the  fourteenth  century,  and  with  which  life  at 
the  present  day  has  no  sort  of  sympathy. 

'  There  was  not  a  cottage-tenant  on  the  estate  of 
Comleigh  who  could  call  his  cottage  his  own  securely 
for  more  than  six  months.  How,  then,  was  it  possible 
for  taste  to  grow  up,  or  to  exercise  itself  if  it  was  there  ? 

'  There  can  be  no  art  in  a  people  who  know  that  at  any 
moment  they  may  be  thrust  out  of  doors.  Art  is  of  slow 
growth. 

'  Up  in  the  north  they  say  there  is  a  district  where  the 
labourers  spend  their  idle  hours  in  cutting  out  and 
sticking  together  fiddles.  I  do  not  care  twopence  for  a 
fiddle  as  a  fiddle  ;  but  still  I  think  if  a  labouring  man 
coming  home  from  plough,  and  exposure  to  rough  wind, 
and  living  on  coarse  fare,  can  still  have  spirit  enough  left 
to  sit  down  and  patiently  carve  out  bits  of  maple  wood 
and  fit  them  together  into  a  complete  and  tunable  fiddle, 
then  he  must  have  within  him  some  of  the  true  idea  of  art, 
and  that  fiddle  is  in  itself  a  work  of  art. 

'  Nothing  of  the  sort  will  ever  be  possible  in  our  cottage 
homes  till  the  people  in  them  know  that  they  can  live 
therein  as  long  as  they  please  provided  they  pay  the  rent, 
and  are  not  liable  to  be  ordered  off  into  the  next  county  or 
anywhere  because  they  have  displeased  someone.'* 

He  laughs  at  the  great  new  Maasbury  Church  that  was 
to  replace  the  little  old  one,  and  to  give  the  '  shaven 
advisers  '  the  profit  of  the  social  influence  gained  by  such 
a  change.  But  Jefferies  never  knew  nor  cared  much 
about  the  church,  whether  he  praised  it  as  a  youth  or 
scorned  it  in  his  maturity.     The  scorn  was  better  than 

*  The  Dewy  Morn. 


248       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

the  praise,  because  it  was  more  generous  and  more  in 
harmony  with  his  character.  Complacent  praise  never 
did  any  good  ;  humane  scorn  of  an  old  and  confused 
institution  might  possibly  do  good.  It  is  a  pity  he  took 
to  abuse  ;  but  his  nature  was  dogmatic,  and  abuse  is  the 
superfluity  of  a  dogmatic  nature.  He  has  learned,  too, 
that  things  may  be  imperfect  and  yet  better  than  the 
perfection  of  cloistered  nullity,  and  he  contrasts  the 
empty  Cornleigh  with  Justice  Shallow,  who  '  had  heard  the 
chimes  at  midnight,  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  the 
bona  robas,  had  been  intoxicated  (by  inference),  had  sown 
wild  oats  in  his  youth.' 

But  along  with  this  spirit  of  opposition  Jefferies  retains 
much  of  the  old — in  his  hate  of  Boards  and  beadles,  and 
his  belief  in  '  good  juicy  meat '  and  ale.  Here  he  is 
thinking  again  of  Fate  :  '  Petty  circumstances  unregarded 
lead  men  on,  from  step  to  step,  from  thought  to  thought, 
action  to  action  ;  is  this  Fate  ?'  In  other  places,  '  Some- 
one has  to  suffer — always  someone  has  to  suffer  '  ;  and, 
'  Nothing  is  ever  a  pleasure  or  a  real  profit  to  him  who  has 
to  labour  for  it.  Truth — you  die  in  the  pursuit,  and  the 
sea  beats  the  beach  as  it  did  a  thousand  years  ago,'  Here, 
too,  the  creed  implied  in  all  his  books  is  definitely  stated  : 

'  All  of  you  with  little  children,  and  who  have  no  need 
to  count  expense,  or  even  if  you  have  such  need,  take 
them  somehow  into  the  country  among  green  grass  and 
yellow  wheat — among  trees — by  hills  and  streams,  if  you 
wish  their  highest  education,  that  of  the  heart  and  the 
soul,  to  be  completed. 

'  Therein  shall  they  find  a  Secret — a  knowledge  not 
to  be  written,  not  to  be  found  in  books.  They  shall  know 
the  sun  and  the  wind,  the  running  water,  and  the  breast 
of  the  broad  earth.  Under  the  green  spray,  among  the 
hazel  boughs  where  the  nightingale  sings,  they  shall  find  a 
Secret,  a  feeling,  a  sense  that  fills  the  heart  with  an 
emotion  never  to  be  forgotten.  They  will  forget  their 
books — they  will  never  forget  the  grassy  fields. 

'  If  you  wish  your  children  to  think  deep  things —  to 


'  THE  DEWY  MORN  '  249 

know  the  holiest  emotions — take  them  to  the  woods  and 
hills,  and  give  them  the  freedom  of  the  meadows, 

'  It  is  of  no  use  to  palter  with  your  conscience  and  say, 
"  They  have  everything ;  they  have  expensive  toys, 
story-books  without  end  ;  we  never  go  anywhere  without 
bringing  them  home  something  to  amuse  them  ;  they  have 
been  to  the  seaside,  and  actually  to  Paris  ;  it  is  absurd, 
they  cannot  want  anything  more." 

'  But  they  do  want  something  more,  without  which  all 
this  expensive  spoiling  is  quite  thrown  away.  They  want 
the  unconscious  teaching  of  the  country,  and  without  that 
they  will  never  know  the  truths  of  this  life.  They  need  to 
feel — unconsciously — the  influence  of  the  air  that  blows, 
sun-sweetened,  over  fragrant  hay  ;  to  feel  the  influence  of 
deep  shady  woods,  mile-deep  in  boughs — the  stream — the 
high  hills  ;  they  need  to  revel  in  long  grass.  Put  away 
their  books,  and  give  them  the  freedom  of  the  meadows. 
Do  it  at  any  cost  or  trouble  to  yourselves,  if  you  wish  them 
to  become  great  men  and  noble  women.'* 

Robert  Godwin,  the  Cornleigh  bailiff,  hopeless  lover  of 
Felise,  is  Jefferies'  one  successful  concentration  upon  a 
character  in  no  way  like  himself.  Like  Barnard,  he  is 
usually  written  about  rather  than  revealed  as  Felise  is  ; 
but  his  acute  moments  are  as  imaginatively  drawn  as 
anything  in  the  book.  He  was  one  to  whom  '  that  scarce 
definable  culture — that  idea  which  exists  in  the  heart  and 
soul  independent  of  outward  appearances — the  sense  of  a 
beautiful  inner  life — so  delicate  a  music  was  soundless  in 
his  ears.'  And  '  the  ground  was  solid  under  his  feet  ; 
the  sky  afar  off  a  mere  translucent  roof  ;  the  sun  a  round 
ball  of  heat,  never  seen  unless  he  chanced  to  be  driving 
westwards  towards  sunset.  .  .  .  When  his  hands  were  still 
and  his  frame  reposed,  his  mind  was  simply  vacant,  like 
that  of  a  horse  looking  from  his  stable-door,  or  a  dog  by 
his  kennel.'  He  had  '  the  faculty  of  no  imagination.' 
Yet  he  never  thought  of  anything  else  but  Felise  ;  for 
nine  years  '  a  colourless  eye  watched  her.'  '  He  lived  in 
*  The  Dewy  Morn. 


250       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

a  dream — this  dreamless  man  ;  he  was  absorbed  in  one 
idea — an  idea  so  fixed  that  his  mind  was  vacant.  .  .  .  His 
mind  was  with  Fehse.'  Then  one  day  she  promised  to 
go  over  to  his  house — really  to  see  the  horse  which 
Barnard  had  had  to  sell  to  Godwin.  He  stood  near  her, 
having  come  in  a  fury  to  complain  of  her  fishing  where 
she  ought  not  to.  He  had  never  before  been  so  near. 
Her  presence  was  '  almost  an  embrace,'  and  now  '  his 
abstraction  was  so  intense  that  he  was  in  a  manner  dead.' 
Yet  he  worked  correctly  all  the  long  summer  day  before 
she  was  to  come.  In  the  evening  he  worked  at  his 
accounts,  wrote  letters,  made  notes.  His  sister,  tired  of 
writing,  had  her  supper  and  went  to  bed.  He  went  out 
and  waited  until  the  mail-cart  came  for  the  letters.  He 
could  not  rest ;  he  took  no  notice  of  the  sky  at  that  time, 
'  when,  if  ever  it  will,  the  soul  reigns,  and  the  coarse,  rude 
acts  of  day  are  forgotten  in  the  aspiration  of  the  inmost 
mind.' 

'  Robert  returned  to  his  bedroom,  took  off  his  coat, 
looked  at  his  bed,  and  put  his  coat  on  again.  He  did 
not  care  to  lie  down.  He  lighted  a  great  stable-lantern, 
and  went  out  of  doors  again. 

*  The  hasp  of  the  gate  against  which  he  had  leaned 
was  a  little  shaky  and  loose  ;  he  found  the  tools,  went  to 
work,  and  put  it  to  rights.  Then  he  went  into  the  orchard 
to  the  garden-house,  and  examined  the  gardener's  tools, 
one  by  one,  to  see  if  they  had  been  roughly  used,  or 
injured  ;  if  so,  the  man  must  pay.  The  man  had  been 
digging ;  with  the  lantern  in  his  hand  Robert  paced 
the  distance  dug  to  see  how  many  yards  he  had  com- 
pleted. 

*  Robert  went  to  the  stable,  looked  in  at  Ruy,  climbed 
up  into  the  tallet,  and  spied  about  to  see  if  any  forage 
had  been  stolen.  He  examined  the  carter's  collection 
of  horse-hair — his  perquisite — to  see  if  it  was  accumu- 
lating too  fast. 

'  He  brought  out  a  stool  and  saw,  and  sawed  up  fire- 
wood till  he  had  made  a  goodly  heap.     He  would  have 


'  THE  DEWY  MORN  '  251 

done  more,  but  that  would  encourage  waste.     If  only  a 
little  was  cut  up,  only  a  little  would  be  used. 

'  He  planed  a  piece  of  timber  intended  for  the  head  of 
a  gate.  He  counted  the  poles  aslant  against  the  wood- 
pile. Nothing  else  remaining  that  he  could  do,  he  re- 
turned to  the  garden,  took  off  his  coat,  set  the  lantern  on 
the  grass,  and  dug  where  the  gardener  had  left  off.  While 
he  dug  the  night  went  on — the  night  that  was  in  no 
haste  to  do  anything  ;  and  by  degrees  a  pale  light  grew  up 
above  the  eastern  horizon.  The  dawn  comes  early  in 
summer. 

'  Still  Robert  dug  steadily  on  till  the  other  mail-cart 
— the  down  mail  —  approached.  He  stopped  and 
listened  ;  the  driver  did  not  pull  up,  so  there  were  no 
letters.  Robert  scraped  his  boots,  put  away  the  spade, 
blew  out  the  lantern,  and  went  indoors. 

'  By  the  pale  white  light  he  looked  again  at  his  bed  ; 
but  he  could  not  lie  down.  There  was  no  rest  in  him  that 
night.  He  lit  his  cheap  candle  and  went  up  into  the  attic 
overhead,  where  he  had  not  been  for  years.  The  shutters 
were  perpetually  closed  up  there,  so  that  the  place  was 
partly  dark,  although  streaks  of  dawn  came  through 
the  chinks.  The  great  bare  room  was  full  of  ancient 
lumber. 

'  He  set  the  candle  on  an  oak  press  and  fell  to  work, 
sorting  the  confused  mass  which  strewed  the  floor.  Old 
chairs — some  broken,  some  perfect — a  picture  or  two, 
hair-trunks,  books,  bundles  of  newspapers,  pieces  of  chain 
— odd  lengths  thrown  aside — nameless  odds  and  ends, 
such  as  candlesticks,  parts  of  implements,  the  waste  of  a 
century,  all  covered  with  dust  and  dead  black  cobwebs. 
Dead  cobwebs  thick  with  dust,  not  the  fine  clean  threads 
the  spider  has  in  use  ;  webs  which  had  been  abandoned 
fifty  years  ago. 

'  The  skeleton  of  a  bird  lay  at  the  bottom  of  a  hollow 
in  the  pile,  perhaps  an  injured  swallow  that  had  crept  in 
there  to  die.  A  pair  of  flintlock  pistols,  the  flints  still  in 
the   hammers,    were   in   very   good   condition,    scarcely 


252       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

rusted  ;  Robert  snicked  the  locks  and  examined  them 
carefully.     He  was  black  with  dust  and  cobwebs. 

'  Chairs  and  furniture  he  threw  on  one  side,  boxes  on 
another,  papers  and  books  in  a  corner,  and  soon  began  to 
make  order  of  confusion. 

'  The  light  of  morning  came  stronger  through  the  chinks  ; 
the  flame  of  the  candle  appeared  yellow.  The  alchemy 
of  light  was  changing  the  sky  without. 

'  He  worked  on  till  footsteps  sounded  on  the  paths 
outside,  the  carters  had  come  to  see  to  the  horses.  There 
was  someone  at  last  to  drive. 

'  Robert  went  downstairs,  and  out  to  the  pump  ;  there 
he  washed  himself  in  the  open  air,  as  he  had  been  made  to 
do  years  and  years  ago  in  his  stern  old  father's  time. 
The  habit  adhered  still ;  the  man  was  indeed  all  habit. 
Then  he  visited  the  stables,  and  began  to  drive  the  carters  ; 
the  night  was  over,  the  day  had  begun. 

'  Overhead  and  eastwards  there  shone  a  glory  of  blue 
heaven,  illuminated  from  within  with  golden  light.  The 
deep  rich  azure  was  lit  up  with  an  inner  gold  ;  it  was  a 
time  to  worship,  to  lift  up,  the  heart.  Is  there  anything 
so  wondrously  beautiful  as  the  sky  just  before  the  sun 
rises  in  summer  ? 

'  There  was  a  sound  of  cart-horses  stamping  heavily, 
the  rattle  and  creak  of  harness,  the  shuffle  of  feet  ;  a  man 
came  out  with  a  set  forehead,  grumbling  and  muttering  ; 
the  driver  was  at  work. 

'  No  one  heeded  the  alchemy  proceeding  in  the  east, 
which  drew  forth  gold  and  made  it  shine  in  the  purple.'* 

Yet  in  selling  Felise  a  horse,  he  insisted  on  ten  pounds 
more  than  the  price  she  knew  he  had  just  given  for  it. 
Later,  he  contrived  more  than  once  to  have  Felise  and 
Barnard  together  in  his  garden,  to  see  with  his  own  eyes 
the  love  between  them.  Then,  when  at  last  he  believed, 
seeing  her  frank  ardour,  that '  she  was  Martial's  mistress,' 
he  caught  her,  gagged  her,  threw  her  down,  and  vainly 
tried  to  make  the  horse  trample  on  her.     Frustrated  by 

*  The  Dewy  Mom. 


'  THE  DEWY  MORN  '  253 

Martial,  he  escaped,  and  after  a  frantic  interview  with 
Felise,'  Barnard,  and  Goring,  shot  himself. 

With  Godwin,  the  beautiful  Felise,  the  half-emerging 
Barnard,  and  the  shadowy  Goring  ;  with  Felise's  pretty 
hapless  maid,  Polly  Shaw,  and  Polly's  lover  and  his  old 
father,  and  the  phlegmatic  miller  ;  with  Cornleigh,  and 
his  wife,  the  '  capital  thing  for  Cornleigh,'  the  book  might 
have  been  the  first  in  a  long  line  of  novels,  giving  a  spiritual 
and  dramatic  presentment  of  human  life,  and  a  perfectly 
intimate,  always  relevant,  background  of  landscape  and 
garden — nay,  more  than  a  background,  since  Nature  is 
stamped  with  the  human  characters  as  the  hyacinth  with 
the  signature  of  Apollo's  grief.  '  The  Dewy  Morn  '  shows 
more  sides  of  the  mature  or  maturing  Jefferies  than  any 
of  its  predecessors — his  passion  for  beauty  and  humanity, 
his  sensuous  and  spiritual  view  of  Nature  and  women,  his 
hatred  of  oppression,  his  impatience  of  delaying  reform,  his 
belief  in  Fate,  his  growing  curiosity  about  human  character. 
The  writing,  employed  on  description,  portraiture,  narra- 
tive, reflection,  and  dialogue,  is  accordingly  more  varied, 
nor  is  success  denied  to  it.  There  are  several  places 
where  the  easy  omission  of  a  phrase  or  two  would  have 
cleared  away  an  awkward  fault,  and  the  narrative  pro- 
gresses with  a  few  small  crudities  to  which  the  lack  of 
self-criticism  blinded  him.  It  is  deftness  only  that  is 
wanting,  and  Jefferies  was  never  deft. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

*AFTER    LONDON' 

*  After  London,'  or  '  Wild  England,'  was  published  in 
1885,  but  finished  in  March  or  April,  1884.  On  April  2, 
1884,  he  wrote*  from  Brighton  that  he  had  just  put  the 
finishing  touch  to  it,  though  in  June,  1885,  he  said  that 
'  the  MS.  was  completed  three  years  since.'  It  is,  he 
says,  '  in  no  sense  a  novel,  more  like  a  romance,  but  a 
romance  of  a  real  character.  .  .  .  You  will,  I  think, 
do  me  the  justice  to  say  that  it  is  original.'  The  two 
years  at  Brighton  were  his  most  prolific.  He  wrote 
there  '  The  Story  of  My  Heart,'  '  The  Dewy  Morn,' 
'  Red  Deer,'  '  After  London,'  as  well  as  many  of  the 
essays  in  '  Nature  near  London,'  '  The  Life  of  the 
Fields,'  *  The  Open  Air,'  '  Field  and  Hedgerow,'  and 
some  not  yet  reprinted  from  the  magazines.  This  was  an 
oasis  of  comparative  health  and  unbounded  mental  energy 
after  the  illness  of  1881-82,  and  as  late  as  March  27, 1884, 
he  could  write*  that  his  illness  was  '  not  at  all  serious,  but 
very  annoying,  being  so  apt  to  prevent  his  getting  about ' ; 
it  had,  in  fact,  kept  him  away  from  London  for  some  time, 
except  to  see  a  physician.  So  busy  had  he  been  that  he 
was  told  he  wrote  too  much. 

'  To  me,'  he  answers,*  '  it  seems  as  if  I  wrote  nothing, 
more  especially  since  my  illness,  for  this  is  the  third  year 
I  have  been  so  weakened.  To  me  it  seems  as  if  I  wrote 
nothing,  for  my  mind  teems  with  ideas,  and  my  difiiculty 
is  to  know  what  to  do  with  them.  I  not  only  sketch  out 
•  To  Mr.  C.  J.  Longman. 
254 


•  AFTER  LONDON  '  255 

the  general  plan  of  a  book  almost  instantaneously,  but  I 
can  see  every  little  detail  of  it  from  the  first  page  to  the 
last.  The  mere  writing — the  handwriting — is  the  only 
trouble ;  it  is  very  wearying.  At  this  moment  I  have  several 
volumes  complete  in  my  mind.  Scarce  a  day  goes  by 
that  I  do  not  put  down  a  fresh  thought.  I  have  twelve 
notebooks  crammed  full  of  ideas,  plots,  sketches  for 
papers,  and  so  on.' 

He  continues  : 

'  What  you  say  about  publishing  too  often  has  no  doubt 
some  truth  in  it,  but  I  have  no  choice  in  that  respect  until 
the  publisher  gives  me  a  larger  sum  for  the  MS.  These 
trifling  sums  are  of  little  value  in  the  nineteenth  and  ex- 
pensive century.  I  should  not  expose  my  possessions  or 
affairs  to  anyone  else,  but  I  believe  I  may  be  perfectly 
sure  of  you.  I  have  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  these 
things  for  some  time,  but  my  health  has  been  so  very 
indifferent  that  I  have  not  been  able  to  get  about.' 

Notwithstanding  his  productiveness,  his  new  book  was 
an  excellent  piece  of  writing,  with  some  split  infinitives,  a 
slip  in  construction,  the  use  of  '  assist '  for '  help,'  and  a  few 
other  tokens  of  his  usual  indifference  to  trifles.  Originally, 
it  was  perhaps  much  longer  than  we  know  it  now,  for  he 
said  that  it  was  '  in  three  volumes.'  It  sprang,  perhaps, 
from  the  calm  that  followed  the  excitement  of  '  The  Story 
of  My  Heart,'  '  The  Dewy  Morn,'  and  essays  like  '  The 
Pageant  of  Summer,'  and  '  Sunny  Brighton  ' ;  and  of  the 
ideas  in  those  books  there  is  hardly  a  trace.  Having 
described  the  relapse  of  England  into  barbarism,  and  the 
loss  of  everything  characteristic  of  nineteenth-century 
civilization,  one  so  dogmatic  and  prophetic  as  Jefferies 
might  have  been  expected  to  make  use  of  this  oppor- 
tunity, and  to  show  us  a  Utopia.  Instead  of  which, 
the  doings  of  the  house  of  Aquila,  a  family  which 
has  survived  the  relapse,  are  a  continuation  of  the 
games  of  Bevis.  Here  Bevis  is  grown  a  man  and  called 
Felix  Aquila  ;  Mark  is  now  a  big,  proud  soldier,  called 
Oliver  ;  the  '  Governor  ' — James  Jefferies — is  the  Baron 


256       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

Constans  Aquila.  The  inland  sea  over  which  FeHx  adven- 
tures to  the  swampy  site  of  London  is  Coate  Reservoir 
enlarged.    It  is  a  solemn,  playful  sequel  to  '  Bevis.' 

'  The  Relapse  into  Barbarism  '  is  one  of  Jefferies' 
masterpieces  in  description.  The  calm,  ironical  detail 
with  which  the  change  is  depicted  has  a  touch  of  Herodotus 
and  of  Ordericus  Vitalis,  but  is  all  his  own,  and  reveals 
an  unsuspected  strength  of  remorseless  logic  and  restraint. 
Hedges  and  woods  spread  so  that  '  by  the  thirtieth  year 
there  was  not  one  single  open  place,  the  hills  only  excepted, 
where  a  man  could  walk,  unless  he  followed  the  tracks  of 
wild  creatures,  or  cut  himself  a  path.'  Ditches  had  been 
filled  up,  weirs  and  bridges  destroyed.  Thames  and 
Severn  overflowed,  and  made  an  inland  sea  between  the 
Cotswolds  and  the  Downs,  for  the  ruins  of  London  blocked 
the  river,  and  were  changed  into  swamp  '  which  no  man 
dare  enter,  since  death  would  be  his  inevitable  fate. 
There  exhales  from  this  oozy  mass  so  fatal  a  vapour  that 
no  animal  can  endure  it.  The  black  water  bears  a  greenish- 
brown  floating  scum,  which  for  ever  bubbles  up  from  the 
putrid  mud  at  the  bottom.  When  the  wind  collects  the 
miasma,  and,  as  it  were,  presses  it  together,  it  becomes 
visible  as  a  low  cloud  which  hangs  over  the  place.  The 
cloud  does  not  advance  beyond  the  limits  of  the  marsh, 
seeming  to  stay  there  by  some  constant  attraction  ;  and 
well  it  is  for  us  that  it  does  not,  since  at  such  times  when 
the  vapour  is  thickest  the  very  wild-fowl  leave  the  reeds, 
and  fly  from  the  poison.  There  are  no  fishes ;  neither 
can  eels  exist  in  the  mud,  nor  even  newts.  It  is  dead.' 
The  same,  or  as  bad  a  fate,  has  overtaken  other  cities. 
'  The  sites,'  says  the  historian, '  are  uninhabitable  because 
of  the  emanations  from  the  ruins.  Therefore  they  are 
avoided.  Even  the  spot  where  a  single  house  has  been 
known  to  have  existed  is  avoided  by  the  hunters  in  the 
wood.  They  say,  when  they  are  stricken  with  ague  or 
fever,  that  they  must  have  unwittingly  slept  on  the  site 
of  an  ancient  habitation.'  The  wild  animals  are  descended 
from  our  domestic  kinds  ;  they  are  the  white  and  black 


•  AFTER  LONDON  '  257 

cattle,  the  forest  cats,  and  the  black,  yellow,  and  white 
wood  dogs,  four  kinds  of  wild  swine,  two  of  wild  horses. 
Tradition  speaks  of  famous  racehorses  in  the  old  time  : 
*  Did  but  one  exist,  how  eagerly  would  it  be  sought  out, 
for  in  these  days  it  would  be  worth  its  weight  in  gold, 
unless,  indeed,  as  some  afhrm,  such  speed  only  endured 
for  a  mile  or  two.'  Poultry  and  deer  have  become  wild  ; 
the  beaver,  escaping  from  '  the  dens  of  the  ancients,'  has 
re-established  itself.  The  richer  and  more  cultivated 
men  left  the  country  long  ago,  and  the  unlettered  survivors 
have  few  arts,  no  gunpowder  and  no  steam.  The  railway 
embankments  are  overgrown  by  thickets,  the  tunnels 
broken  down. 

The  Bushmen  of  the  woods,  descended  from  tramps, 
are  utterly  savage  and  depraved.  The  gipsies  still  remain 
apart  in  tents  and  on  horses,  attacking  travellers.  The 
few  cities  are  on  the  shores  of  the  great  lake.  '  In  the 
provinces  and  kingdoms  round  about  the  lake  there  is 
hardly  a  towTi  where  the  slaves  do  not  outnumber  the  free 
as  ten  to  one.  ...  If  a  man  in  his  hunger  steals  a  loaf,  he 
becomes  a  slave.'  The  mark  of  a  noble  is  that  he  can 
read  and  write.  The  nobles  have  no  culture,  and  are  dis- 
tinguished chiefly  by  their  courage.  '  There  are  few  books,' 
says  the  historian,  '  and  still  fewer  to  read  them  ;  and  these 
all  in  manuscript,  for  though  the  way  to  print  is  not  lost,  it 
is  not  employed,  since  no  one  wants  books.'  On  the  margin 
of  this  state  the  Welsh  and  Irish  wait  for  an  opportunity 
to  rush  in  and  destroy.     Their  ships  hover  in  the  lake. 

'  Never,  as  I  observed  before,  was  there  so  beautiful  an 
expanse  of  water.  How  much  must  we  sorrow  that  it  has 
so  often  proved  only  the  easiest  mode  of  bringing  the 
miseries  of  war  to  the  doors  of  the  unoffending  !  Yet 
men  are  never  weary  of  sailing  to  and  fro  upon  it,  and 
most  of  the  cities  of  the  present  time  are  upon  its  shores. 
And  in  the  evening  we  walk  by  the  beach,  and  from  the 
rising  grounds  look  over  its  waters,  as  if  to  gaze  upon  their 
loveliness  were  reward  to  us  for  the  labour  of  the  day.'* 

*  After  London. 

17 


258       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

Baron  Constans,  head  of  the  House  of  Aquila,  is  a 
thoughtful,  secluded,  impoverished  man,  cultivating  his 
garden  like  James  Jefferies  and  the  old  men  in  '  World's 
End  '  and  '  The  Dewy  Mom.'  He  has  no  power  at  Court, 
and  has  to  give  way  to  younger,  more  pushful  men.  He 
has  been  a  great  wielder  of  the  battle-axe,  and  has 
invented  a  wheel  for  drawing  water  and  a  machine  for 
casting  stones.  The  common  people  love  him.  The 
place  is  flowing  with  milk  and  honey,  but  there  is  no 
money. 

His  eldest  son,  Felix,  has  a  few  books  and  parchments 
annotated  by  himself.  By  pondering  over  these  he  has 
reconstructed  much  of  the  old  knowledge.  He  prefers  this 
study  to  war,  and  is  despised  for  it.  His  '  unbending 
independence  '  isolates  him  still  more.  Only  in  one  thing 
is  he  admitted  to  excel,  in  the  use  of  the  bow,  and  that  is 
an  ignoble  weapon.  Yet  it  is  he  who  notices  the  lack  of 
discipline  and  order  which  leaves  the  family  stockade 
imperfectly  guarded.  He  lives  the  life  of  a  student,  but 
also  of  a  hunter,  and,  like  Jefferies,  he  sells  furs.  He  can- 
not even  hope  to  succeed  to  his  father's  estate,  so  heavily 
is  it  encumbered.  To  his  brother  Oliver  had  fallen  '  all 
the  blood  and  bone  and  thew  and  sinew  of  the  house  .  .  . 
all  the  fiery,  restless  spirit  and  defiant  temper ;  all  the 
utter  recklessness  and  warrior's  instinct.' 

Felix  is  making  a  canoe  ;  '  the  individuality  and  interest 
of  the  work  '  would  be  lost  were  he  to  have  it  made  for 
him.  Oliver  helps,  and  the  contrast  between  Felix's 
originality  and  awkwardness  and  Oliver's  bluff  readiness 
is  carried  further.  In  the  intervals  of  work  he  walks 
about  the  shore,  and  notices  an  important  strategic 
position,  points  it  out  to  the  prince  anonymously,  and  is 
ignored. 

The  brothers  go  together  to  Thyma  Castle,  where  lives 
Aurora,  Felix's  beloved.  Oliver,  handsome,  ready,  and 
joyous,  is  at  ease  and  happy  with  all  the  f casters  ;  Felix, 
fancying  himself  despised,  is  morose,  and  even  accuses 
Aurora  of  flirtation.     He  is  bent  on  a  great  voyage  alone 


'  AFTER  LONDON  '  259 

over  the  lake.  That  could  satisfy  his  heart,  and  the  June 
morning  sun  *  filled  him  with  hope.'  He  leaves  home 
without  a  word.  Once  on  the  water  '  his  natural  strength 
of  mind  '  returns.  His  pensive  eye  sees  in  the  strait 
through  which  he  passes  the  key  to  the  lake.  The 
thought  of  Aurora  leads  him  on  in  the  hope  of  earning 
recognition  for  his  talents  from  a  warring  monarch — 
Isembard  of  Aisi.  Having  landed,  his  poor  appearance 
brings  him  many  vexations.  Joining  the  army  at  last, 
he  suggests  a  new  form  of  trigger  for  the  crossbows  ;  he 
resolves  to  point  out  the  King's  errors,  and  begins  with  the 
words  : '  Your  Majesty,  you  are  an  incapable  commander.' 
The  genial  King  sees  the  wisdom  of  his  suggestion,  and, 
hearing  of  the  new  trigger,  gives  him  clothes  and  a  sword  ; 
but  he  is  beaten  out  of  camp  for  a  proposal  scoffed  at  by 
the  master  of  the  artillery.  He  continues  his  voyage,  and 
reaches  the  lifeless  water,  the  withered  sedges,  the  falling 
willow-leaves,  the  scummy  surface,  near  the  London 
swamp.  Irresistibly  the  wind  carries  him  over  the  black 
water.  He  lands  on  a  plantless  plain,  hard,  black,  burnt, 
and  often  hollow-sounding ;  he  grows  drowsy  amid 
flickering  vapours  ;  old  houses  dissolve  in  powder  at  his 
touch  ;  he  is  among  the  skeletons  of  those  who  have  come 
to  the  poisonous  land  for  treasure.  Returning  to  his 
canoe  with  one  large  diamond  for  Aurora,  he  is  taken  by  a 
steady  wind  once  more  to  the  sweet  water,  and  hears  the 
voices  of  thrush  and  swallow.  In  a  land  of  shepherds, 
his  unique  adventures  and  skill  with  the  bow  gain  him 
kingly  honours.  His  arrows  destroy  many  in  a  fight  with 
gipsies,  and  put  the  rest  to  flight.  The  divination  that 
water  is  to  be  found  in  a  certain  place,  his  knowledge  of 
herbs,  give  him  an  embarrassing  authority ;  he  is  offered 
kingship,  and  accepts  it  only  during  time  of  war.  He 
writes  out  the  shepherd  law.  Yet  he  cannot  forget 
Aurora,  and  is  ever  on  the  look-out  for  a  way  of  return  by 
land.  He  will  bring  Aurora  here,  and  build  a  castle  for 
her.  He  gets  leave  to  be  away  two  months,  and  even 
then  shps  off  on  a  false  pretext.     It  is  a  long  journey 

17 — 2 


26o       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

across  unpenetrated  forest,  say  from  Guildford  to 
Marlborough  : 

'  Not  only  was  there  no  track,  but  no  one  had  ever 
traversed  it,  unless,  indeed,  it  were  Bushmen,  who  to  all 
intents  might  be  confused  with  the  wild  animals  it 
contained. 

'  Yet  his  heart  rose  as  he  walked  rapidly  among  the 
oaks  ;  already  he  saw  her,  he  felt  the  welcoming  touch  of 
her  hand  ;  the  danger  of  Bushman  or  gipsy  was  as  nothing. 
The  forest  at  the  commencement  consisted  chiefly  of 
oaks,  trees  which  do  not  grow  close  together,  and  so  per- 
mitted of  quick  walking.  Felix  pushed  on,  absorbed  in 
thought.  The  sun  sank  ;  still  onward  ;  and  as  the  dusk 
fell  he  was  still  moving  rapidly  westward.'* 

That  is  the  end.  It  is  a  wilful  one,  as  if  on  an  hexameter 
instead  of  a  pentameter,  yet  it  needs  no  defence.  Others 
could  have  been  found  to  conform  to  the  needs  of  perhaps 
a  majority.  But  to  end  with  suspended  breath  is  as  true 
to  Nature,  and  in  keeping  with  this  age  ;  it  might  be  used 
as  a  variation  upon  '  happily  ever  after '  or  '  necessity  is 
great.' 

The  members  of  the  House  of  Aquila  are  described  with 
sufficient  intensity  of  detail  as  to  their  appearance,  habits 
of  thought  and  conduct,  and  surroundings,  to  make  us 
willing  to  hear  more  of  them,  yet  they  are  rather  written 
about  than  revealed.  But  though  Felix  himself  is  not 
more  than  the  others  a  complete  creature  of  flesh  and  mind, 
he  develops  into  an  interesting  spirit  rather  than  a  man, 
and  his  voyage  is  always  fascinating.  '  In  the  hearts  of 
most  of  us,'  wrote  Jefferies,  looking  at  the  dreamy  masts 
of  Thames,  '  there  is  always  a  desire  for  something 
beyond  experience.  Hardly  any  of  us  but  have  thought. 
Some  day  I  will  go  on  a  long  voyage  ;  but  the  years  go 
by,  and  still  we  have  not  sailed.'  This  book  was  his 
voyage,  the  answer  to  that  need  which  had  sent  him  to 
see  Moscow  on  foot  as  a  boy.  Few  records  of  imagined  life 
are  for  the  time  being  so  desirable  as  that  of  the  solitary 

*  After  London. 


*  AFTER  LONDON  '  261 

voyage,  and  especially  the  landing  among  the  shepherds  ; 
it  has  the  charm  of  the  serene  and  the  remote  ;  it  is  a 
pastoral  fluting  with  a  grave  undertone.  Of  the  incidents, 
the  journey  through  the  forest,  with  the  dread  of  Bush- 
men, is  perfectly  realized.  It  is  pastoral,  but  it  is  the 
unforced,  half-allegorical  significance  in  the  adventures  of 
this  new  and  sensitive  mind  in  a  strange  world  that  holds 
the  book  together.  It  must  have  been  a  curious  joy  to 
Jefferies  to  set  himself  afloat  in  the  canoe  on  that  crystal 
water,  bold,  yet  self-torturing,  soaring,  independent,  yet 
crude  and  dogmatic  ;  to  plunge  at  last  into  the  ancient 
wood  and  gain  Aurora  or  perish.  But  it  is  also  a  bitter 
book.  The  Fate  of  his  other  books  is  terribly  exalted  to 
permit  so  mean  a  world,  full  of  corruption,  slavery,  sus- 
picion, uncertainty,  instead  of  a  hearty  barbarism,  after 
the  troublesome  destruction  of  a  whole  civilization  ;  and  it 
is  excusable  to  wonder  that  the  relapse  should  have  been 
to  a  state  so  far  below  what  not  he  alone  dreamed  of  as 
the  lot  of  the  man  in  the  tumulus  on  the  Downs.  That  it 
is  not  a  Utopia  is  redeemed  by  the  happy  thought  that 
just  as  Coate  Reservoir  was  made  to  cover  the  marshy 
fields  below  Burderop  in  order  that  the  little  Richard 
Jefferies  might  sail  and  fish  there,  so  the  civilization  of 
England  has  been  buried  under  an  inland  sea,  that  Felix 
may  sail  on  it  alone  and  find  adventures.  Having  created 
a  new  world,  Jefferies  seems  to  have  been  so  smitten  with 
the  sight  of  wood  and  water  that  he  himself  ran  down  to  it 
and  enjoyed  and  suffered  there  in  earnest — laying  great 
schemes,  making  a  ship,  sailing  her,  exercising  woodcraft, 
killing  gipsy  after  gipsy  with  his  inevitable  arrows,  dream- 
ing of  a  castle  by  the  lake  where  he  could  take  Aurora  as 
he  dreamed  of  a  hut  on  the  island  at  Coate — and  so  doing 
found  it  not  different  from  the  old  world.  It  is  a  piece  of 
delightful  self-indulgence  that  makes  him  describe  the 
playing  of  the  '  Antigone,'  chosen  by  Aurora,  another  of 
his  admirable  women,  fair,  noble,  sweet,  but  most  shadowy 
of  them  all.  '  "  Antigone  "  was  her  favourite,  and  she 
wished  Felix  to  see  it.     In  some  indefinable  manner  the 


262       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

spirit  of  the  ancient  Greeks  seemed  to  her  in  accord  with 
the  times,  for  men  had,  or  appeared  to  have,  so  little 
control  over  their  own  lives  that  they  might  well  imagine 
themselves  overruled  by  destiny.  .  .  .'  She,  too,  in  those 
iron  days,  preserves  almost  alone  '  the  religion  of  the 
primitive  church  '  and  '  the  duty  of  humanity  to  all,  the 
duty  of  saving  and  protecting  life,  of  kindness  and 
gentleness  ...  a  living  protest  against  the  lawlessness  and 
brutality  of  the  time.'  Felix  does  not  oppose  her,  but  is 
'  simply  untouched,'  for  his  mind  is  too  clear  and  his 
knowledge  of  the  physical  sciences  too  great ;  yet  the 
mystery  of  existence  has  impressed  him  in  the  solitary 
forest,  and  though  he  despises  superstitions,  he  cannot 
shake  off  '  the  apprehensions  aroused  by  untoward 
omens,'  such  as  the  stepping  on  an  adder.  In  the  chapter 
on  '  Superstitions,'  founded  on  the  manuscript  of  one  who 
had  lived  among  the  Romany  and  seen  their  worship  and 
sorceries,  Fehx  looks  eagerly  at  '  the  strange  diagrams  ' 
which  might  be  alchemical  signs,  just  as  Bevis  pores  over 
the  books  of  magic,  and  as  Jefferies  set  his  mind  to  work 
at  the  sight  of  markings  on  eggs  of  birds  and  v/ings  of 
butterflies,  at  the  shape  of  bones  and  of  strange  beasts, 
at  the  divine  curves  of  the  human  body. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
'AMARYLLIS  AT  THE  FAIR* 

*  Amaryllis  at  the  Fair  '  was  the  last  book  pubhshed  by 
Jefferies  during  his  hfetime.  Probably  it  was  written 
before  May,  1886,  since  he  then  offered  a  book  to  a 
publisher,  saying,  '  I  think  you  will  soon  see  that  the 
characters  are  from  life ' ;  this  was  most  likely  '  Amaryllis.' 
He  was  very  ill ;  his  spine  had  given  way,  and  there  was 
no  position  in  which  he  could  lie  or  sit  so  as  to  use  a  pen 
without  distress ;  and  '  consequently,'  he  wrote,  '  a  vast 
mass  of  ideas  go  into  space,  for  I  cannot  write  them  down.' 
In  this  book,  also,  he  revisits  Coate  Farm — how  different 
a  man  from  what  he  was  in  '  The  Poacher,'  '  Bevis,'  '  The 
Dewy  Morn  '  !  He  painted  his  own  youth  in  various  ways 
in  '  The  Poacher  '  and  '  The  Story  of  My  Heart  '  and 
other  books,  and  he  painted  it  amidst  the  fields  of  Coate. 
He  called  upon  them,  also,  to  deepen  the  hnes  of  '  Meadow 
Thoughts  '  and  '  Oak  Bark.'     But  now  Coate  Farm  (or 

*  Coombe  Oaks,'  as  he  calls  it  in  '  Amarylhs  ')  no  longer 
belonged  to  a  Jefferies,  though  James  Luckett  and  his 
wife  still  lived  ;  and  Jefferies  returns  to  it  a  sick,  wise 
man  of  thirty-six  or  thirty-seven,  of  many  thoughts  and 
changes,  if  of  no  forgettings,  with  his  love  and  his  joy 
deepened,  the  cup  of  beauty  preserved  and  enriched  by  a 
touch  of  bitterness  that  takes  away  any  over-sweetness  or 
tendency  to  go  sour.  Almost  the  first  words  are  : 
'  There  are  no  damask  roses  now,  like  there  used  to  be  in 
summer  at  Coombe  Oaks.' 

The  people  are  Amaryllis,  a  girl  of  sixteen  ;  her  father 

253 


264       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

Iden,  a  farmer  ;  her  mother,  bom  a  Flamma  ;  Amadis 
Iden,  '  of  the  same  stock  of  Idens,  yet  no  relations,'  aged 
twenty-one  ;  Alere  Flamma,  aged  forty-nine  ;  old  Iden, 
Amaryllis'  grandfather  ;  and  several  others — farm  people, 
a  squire's  son,  .  ,  .  They  are  not  the  people  who  lived 
at  Coate  Farm,  but  are  drawn  from  them  :  Amaryllis, 
from  Jefferies'  sister,  much  younger  than  himself  ;  the 
Idens  from  his  father  and  mother  ;  Grandfather  Iden  from 
John  Jefferies,  Richard's  grandfather,  who  kept  the 
baker's  shop ;  Alere  Flamma  from  Fred  Gyde,  Mrs. 
Jefferies'  brother,  engraver  and  printer  ;  Amadis  Iden 
perhaps  from  Jefferies  himself,  but  partly  from  John 
Luckett  Jefferies,  his  father's  brother,  draughtsman  and 
musician,  who  died  young. 

The  main  part  of  the  framework  also  is  taken  from 
Coate  and  the  Jefferies  family.  Iden  is  an  original, 
thoughtful,  unbusiness-hke  man  whose  farm  is  going  to 
the  bad  ;  his  wife,  soured  by  poverty,  but  stiU  generous, 
is  at  odds  with  him.  Amaryllis  could  draw,  if  only  she 
could  keep  her  fingers  warm  in  the  cold  attic,  and  she  is 
a  favourite  with  the  baker,  her  grandfather,  from  whom 
her  father  is  estranged  ;  but,  disliking  the  old  man,  she 
will  make  none  of  the  concessions  that  might  have  helped 
to  a  reconciliation  on  the  day  of  the  fair ;  she  is  proud, 
and  she  has  a  sweetheart,  the  sickly  Amadis.  The  end 
of  the  story  leaves  her  with  him  happy  : 

'  In  the  fitness  of  things  Amaryllis  ought  not  to  have 
been  sitting  there  like  this,  with  Amadis  lost  in  the  sweet 
summer  dream  of  love. 

'  She  ought  to  have  loved  and  married  a  Launcelot  du 
Lake,  a  hero  of  the  mighty  arm,  only  with  the  income  of 
Sir  Gorgius  Midas  :  that  is  the  proper  thing. 

'  But  the  fitness  of  things  never  comes  to  pass — every- 
thing happens  in  the  Turkish  manner. 

'  Here  was  Amaryllis,  very  strong  and  full  of  life,  very, 
very  young  and  inexperienced,  very  poor  and  without  the 
least  expectation  whatever  (for  who  could  reconcile  the 
old   and   the  older  Iden  ?),   the  daughter  of  poor   and 


I 


*  AMARYLLIS  AT  THE  FAIR  '  265 

embarrassed  parents,  whom  she  wished  and  prayed  to 
help  in  their  coming  old  age.  Here  was  Amaryllis,  full  of 
poetic  feeling  and  half  a  painter  at  heart,  full  of  generous 
sentiments — what  a  nature  to  be  ground  down  in  the 
sordidness  of  married  poverty  ! 

'  Here  was  Amadis,  extremely  poor,  quite  feeble,  and 
unable  to  earn  a  shilling,  just  talking  of  seeing  the  doctor 
again  about  this  fearful  debility,  full,  too,  as  he  thought, 
of  ideas — what  a  being  to  think  of  her  ! 

*  Nothing  ever  happens  in  the  fitness  of  things.  If 
only  now  he  could  have  regained  the  health  and  strength 
of  six  short  months  ago — if  only  that,  but  you  see,  he 
had  not  even  that.  He  might  get  better  ;  true — he 
might,  I  have  tried  80  drugs  and  I  am  no  better,  I  hope 
he  will. 

'  Could  any  blundering  Sultan  in  the  fatalistic  East 
have  put  things  together  for  them  with  more  utter  con- 
tempt of  fitness  ?  It  is  all  in  the  Turkish  manner,  you 
see. 

'  There  they  sat,  happier  and  happier,  and  deeper  and 
deeper  in  love  every  moment,  on  the  brown  timber  in 
the  long  grass,  their  hearts  as  full  of  love  as  the  meadow 
was  of  sunshine. 

'  You  have  heard  of  the  Sun's  Golden  Cup,  in  which 
after  sunset  he  was  carried  over  Ocean's  stream,  while  we 
slumber  in  the  night,  to  land  again  in  the  East  and  give 
us  the  joy  of  his  rising.  The  great  Golden  Cup  in  which 
Hercules,  too,  was  taken  over  ;  it  was  as  if  that  Cup  had 
been  filled  to  the  brim  with  the  nectar  of  love  and  placed 
at  the  [?  their]  lips  to  drink,  inexhaustible. 

'In  the  play  of  "  Faust " — Alere's  "  Faust  " — Goethe  has 
put  an  interlude,  an  Intermezzo  ;  I  shall  leave  Amaryllis 
and  Amadis  in  their  Interlude  in  Heaven.  Let  the  Play 
of  Human  Life,  with  its  sorrows  and  its  Dread,  pause 
awhile  ;  let  Care  go  aside  behind  the  wings,  let  Debt  and 
Poverty  unrobe,  let  Age  stand  upright,  let  Time  stop  still 
(oh,  Miracle  !  as  the  Sun  did  in  the  Vale  of  Ajalon).  Let 
us  leave  our  lovers  in  the  Interlude  in  Heaven. 


266       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

*  And  as  I  must  leave  them  (I  trust  but  for  a  little 
while)  I  will  leave  them  on  the  brown  oak  timber,  sap- 
stain  brown,  in  the  sunshine  and  dancing  shadow  of 
summer,  among  the  long  grass  and  the  wild  flowers.'* 

Five  or  six  days  fill  the  book.  First,  a  March  day,  when 
Amaryllis  finds  a  daffodil  in  the  garden  and  her  father  is 
planting  potatoes,  and  he  talks  to  her  about  her  great- 
uncle  Richard ;  dinner  follows,  and  Iden  is  left  alone  to 
muse  as  he  has  done  for  thirty  years,  while  the  mice  run 
up  to  his  knee  and  eat  the  crumbs  of  his  bread  and  cheese. 
Second  is  Lady  Day,  Fair  Day  ;  AmarylHs  watches  the 
fair-goers,  the  tramps,  the  farmers,  the  labourers,  the 
cattle  and  sheep,  and  one  Jack  Duck  comes  in  to  gossip 
and  take  some  of  Iden's  '  Goliath  ale.'  Amaryllis  herself 
goes  to  the  fair,  calls  on  Grandfather  Iden  (reputed  to 
have  twenty  thousand  guineas  in  the  iron  box  under  his 
bed),  and  has  dinner  with  the  crowd  of  relatives  who  come, 
each  to  receive  a  sovereign  from  the  old  man,  and  the 
most  pleasing  of  them  a  spade  guinea.  Amarylhs  wins 
the  guinea,  but  throws  it  away  in  her  impatient  dislike 
of  the  old  man,  who  does  not  help  her  father :  then  the 
two  go  out  into  the  crowd,  from  which  the  grandfather 
takes  her  to  see  the  manor-house  of  the  Pamment  family  ; 
she  runs  away,  and  her  people  at  Coombe  Oaks  are 
dehghted  at  her  rebellion.  Third,  the  day — many  days 
in  one — when  she  sits  up  in  the  attic  and  tries  to  draw,  but 
is  too  unhappy  because  it  is  cold  and  the  duns  never  let 
her  father  rest.  Then  come  the  days  in  May  when  Iden, 
Alere,  Amadis,  and  Amaryllis  talk  in  the  round  summer- 
house  ;  and  Alere  suggests  thoughts  on  Fleet  Street, 
Amadis  on  health,  and  Amaryllis  on  love.  The  char- 
acters limn  themselves  in  thought  and  speech  and  act, 
and  out  of  these  few  days  spring  Jeiferies'  thoughts  on 
the  life  which  he  himself  had  seen  and  endured — the  life  of 
thoughtful  or  passionate  people  swayed  by  poverty,  by 
ill-health,  and  by  the  products  of  their  thoughts  and 
passions,  whims,  bad  temper,  generosity,  disappointment, 

*  Amaryllis  at  the  Fair. 


•  AMARYLLIS  AT  THE  FAIR  '  267 

revolt.  There  is  here  no  waste  of  energy  on  the  plots  that 
led  Jefferies  astray  in  '  World's  End  '  and  '  Greene  Feme 
Farm,'  and  compelled  him  into  courses  where  his  genius 
availed  not.  The  book  has  a  form  dictated  solely  by  his 
own  mind  and  soul,  and  by  the  life  he  elected  to  project. 
Here  is  nothing  irrelevant  or  out  of  its  place.  Jefferies 
has  free  play  for  all  his  nature,  has  no  need  to  do  what  he 
has  no  mind  to,  or  to  shirk.  Though  at  the  end  he  seems, 
alas  !  to  promise  another  book,  nothing  is  left  unfinished, 
though,  indeed,  he  neglects  to  say  that  all  lived  happily  for 
ever  after.  You  may  like  it  or  not,  but  to  find  fault  with 
the  form  is  to  assume  that  you  know  more  about  the  life 
at  Coombe  Oaks  and  about  Jefferies  than  he  himself  knew, 
and  to  confess  that  you  want  a  detective  story,  a  treasure- 
hunt,  a  proof  that  the  righteous  man  never  begs  for  his 
bread,  or  what  not.  Some  have  taken  the  trouble  to  say  it  is 
not  a  novel.  It  is  called  '  Amaryllis  at  the  Fair  :  a  Novel,' 
and  has  on  the  title-page  the  words  of  Alcseus  :  '  Our  day 
is  but  a  finger  ;  bring  large  cups.'  It  is,  at  any  rate, 
a  fiction,  a  statement  of  life  through  conversation,  action 
and  reflection,  and  it  is  an  artistic  whole.  Accept '  Panta- 
gruel '  and  '  Tristram  Shandj^'  and  you  must  accept 
'  Amaryllis,'  however  poor  it  may  be.  Reject  it  for  its 
ending — then  rewrite  it  as  was  done  with  '  Paradise 
Lost.' 

And  first  for  the  characters.  They  are  always  seen  at 
once  with  the  eye  and  the  mind.  Amaryllis,  lovely,  young, 
and  strong,  stands  out,  '  the  front  line  of  her  shape  begin- 
ning to  bud  like  spring  '  against  the  red  brick  wall  as  she 
runs.  She  is  running  against  the  March  east  wind  to  tell 
her  father  of  the  opened  daffodil.  At  last  Iden  rises 
from  his  potato-planting : 

*  "  Trumpery  rubbish — mean  to  dig  'em  all  up — would 
if  I  had  time,"  muttered  the  father.  "  Have  'em  carted 
out  and  drowed  away — do  for  ashes  to  drow  on  the  fields. 
Never  no  good  on  to  nobody,  thaay  thengs.  You  can't 
eat  'em,  can  you,  like  you  can  potatoes  ?" 

*  "  But  it's  lovely.     Here  it  is,"  and  Amaryllis  stepped 


268       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

on  the  patch  tenderly,  and  lifted  up  the  drooping  face  of 
the  flower. 

'  "  Ah,  yes,"  said  Iden,  putting  his  left  hand  to  his 
chin,  a  habit  of  his  when  thinking,  and  suddenly  quite 
altering  his  pronunciation  from  that  of  the  country  folk 
and  labourers  amongst  whom  he  dwelt  to  the  correct 
accent  of  education.  "  Ah,  yes  ;  the  daffodil  was  your 
great-uncle's  favourite  flower." 

'  "  Richard  ?"  asked  Amaryllis. 

'  "  Richard,"  repeated  Iden.  And  Amaryllis,  noting  how 
handsome  her  father's  intellectual  face  looked,  wandered 
in  her  mind  from  the  flower  as  he  talked,  and  marvelled 
how  he  could  be  so  rough  sometimes,  and  why  he  talked 
like  the  labourers,  and  wore  a  ragged  coat — he  who  was 
so  full  of  wisdom  in  his  other  moods,  and  spoke,  and 
thought,  and  indeed  acted  as  a  perfect  gentleman. 

*  "  Richard's  favourite  flower,"  he  went  on,  "  He 
brought  the  daffodils  down  from  Luckett's  ;  every  one  in 
the  garden  came  from  there.  He  was  always  reading 
poetry,  and  writing,  and  sketching,  and  yet  he  was  such 
a  capital  man  of  business  ;  no  one  could  understand  that. 
He  built  the  mill,  and  saved  heaps  of  money  ;  he  bought 
back  the  old  place  at  Luckett's,  which  belonged  to  us 
before  Queen  Elizabeth's  days  ;  indeed,  he  very  nearly 
made  up  the  fortunes  Nicholas  and  the  rest  of  them  got 
rid  of.  He  was,  indeed,  a  man.  And  now  it  is  all 
going  again — faster  than  he  made  it.  He  used  to  take 
you  on  his  knee  and  say  you  would  walk  well,  because 
you  had  a  good  ankle." 

'  Amaryllis  blushed  and  smoothed  her  dress  with  her 
hands,  as  if  that  would  lengthen  the  skirt  and  hide  the 
ankles  which  Richard,  the  great-uncle,  had  admired  when 
she  was  a  child,  being  a  man,  but  which  her  feminine 
acquaintances  told  her  were  heavy. 

'  "  Here,  put  on  your  hat  and  scarf  ;  how  foolish  of  you 
to  go  out  in  this  wind  without  them  !"  said  Mrs.  Iden, 
coming  out.  She  thrust  them  into  Amaryllis'  unwilling 
hands,  and  retired  indoors  again  immediately. 


•  AMARYLLIS  AT  THE  FAIR  '  269 

*  "  He  was  the  only  one  of  all  the  family,"  continued 
her  father,  "  who  could  make  money  ;  all  the  rest  could 
do  nothing  but  spend  it.  For  ten  generations  he  was 
the  only  money-maker  and  saver,  and  yet  he  was  as  free 
and  liberal  as  possible.  Very  curious,  wasn't  it  ? — only 
one  in  ten  generations — difficult  to  understand  why  none 

of  the  others — why "     He  paused,  thinking.'  * 

Or  she  leans  by  the  wall  her  father  built,  up  above 
the  road,  and  sees  the  fair-goers,  herself  watching  with 
critical  reverie  and  a  vague,  unconscious  eye  for  men. 
Or  she  is  with  her  grandfather,  over  ninety  years  old  : 

'  He  took  Amaryllis  by  the  arm  as  she  stood  on  the  step 
and  pulled  her  into  the  shop,  asked  her  if  her  father  were 
coming,  then  walked  her  down  by  the  oven-door,  and 
made  her  stand  up  by  a  silver-mounted  peel,  to  see  how 
tall  she  was.  The  peel  is  the  long  wooden  rod,  broad  at 
one  end,  with  which  loaves  are  placed  in  the  baker's  oven. 
Father  Iden  being  proud  of  his  trade,  in  his  old  age  had 
his  favourite  peel  ornamented  with  silver. 

'  "  Too  fast — too  fast,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head,  and 
coughing  ;  "  you  grow  too  fast ;  there's  the  notch  I  cut 
last  year,  and  now  you're  two  inches  taller."  He  lowered 
the  peel,  and  showed  her  where  his  thumb  was — quite 
two  inches  higher  than  the  last  year's  mark. 
'  "  I  want  to  be  tall,"  said  Amaryllis. 
'  "  I  daresay — I  daresay,"  said  the  old  man,  in  the 
hasty  manner  of  feeble  age,  as  he  cut  another  notch  to 
record  her  height.  The  handle  of  the  peel  was  notched 
all  round,  where  he  had  measured  his  grandchildren  ; 
there  were  so  many  marks  it  was  not  easy  to  see  how  he 
distinguished  them. 

'  "  Is  your  father  coming  ?"  he  asked,  when  he  had 
finished  with  the  knife. 

'  "  I  don't  know."  This  was  Jesuitically  true — she  did 
not  know — she  could  not  be  certain  ;  but  in  her  heart  she 
was  sure  he  would  not  come.  But  she  did  not  want  to 
hear  any  hard  words  said  about  him.  •  .  .'  t 

*  Amaryllis  at  the  Fair.  f  ^^^^' 


270       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

Or  she  is  in  the  attic,  chair  and  table  by  the  window, 
and  a  disused  bedstead  and  a  hnen-press  (her  bookcase) 
behind  : 

'  Amaryllis  went  straight  to  the  window  and  knelt  down. 
She  brought  a  handful  of  violets,  fresh-gathered,  to  place 
in  the  glass  which  she  kept  there  for  her  flowers.  The 
window  was  cut  in  the  thick  wall,  and  formed  a  niche, 
where  she  had  always  had  a  tumbler  ready — a  common 
glass  tumbler,  she  could  not  afford  a  vase. 

'  They  were  the  white  wild  violets,  the  sweetest  of  aU, 
gathered  while  the  nightingale  was  singing  his  morning 
song  in  the  April  sunshine — a  song  the  world  never  hstens 
to,  more  delicious  than  his  evening  notes,  for  the  sunlight 
helps  him,  and  the  blue  of  the  heavens,  the  green  leaf,  and 
the  soft  wind — all  the  soul  of  spring. 

'  White  wild  violets,  a  dewdrop  as  it  were  of  flower, 
tender  and  dehcate,  growing  under  the  great  hawthorn 
hedge,  by  the  mosses  and  among  the  dry,  brown  leaves  of 
last  year,  easily  overlooked  unless  you  know  exactly  where 
to  go  for  them.  She  had  a  bunch  for  her  neck,  and  a 
large  bunch  for  her  niche.  They  would  have  sunk  and 
fallen  into  the  glass,  but  she  hung  them  by  their  chins 
over  the  edge  of  the  tumbler,  with  their  stalks  in  the 
water.  Then  she  sat  down  in  the  old  chair  at  the  table, 
and  rested  her  head  on  her  hand. 

*  Except  where  she  did  this  every  day,  and  so  brushed 
it,  a  thin  layer  of  dust  had  covered  the  surface  (there  was 
no  cloth)  and  had  collected  on  her  portfoho,  thrust  aside 
and  neglected.  Dust  on  the  indiarubber,  dust  on  the 
cake  of  Indian  ink,  dust  invisible  on  the  smooth  surface 
of  the  pencils,  dust  in  the  httle  box  of  vine  charcoal. 

*  The  hoarse  baying  of  the  hungry  wolves  around  the 
house  had  shaken  the  pencil  from  her  fingers — Siberian 
wolves  they  were,  racing  over  the  arid  deserts  of  debt, 
large  and  sharp-toothed,  ever  increasing  in  number  and 
ferocity,  ready  to  tear  the  very  door  down.  There  are 
no  wolves  like  those  debt  sends  against  a  house. 

'  Every  knock  at  the  door,  every  strange  footstep  up 


rro:ii  a  paint 


FANNY   JEFFERIES, 
a  grandmother  of  Richard  Jefferies. 


•  AMARYLLIS  AT  THE  FAIR  '  271 

the  approach,  every  letter  that  came,  was  Hke  the  gnawing 
and  gnashing  of  savage  teeth 

'  Iden  could  plant  the  potatoes  and  gossip  at  the  stile, 
and  put  the  letters  unopened  on  the  mantelshelf — a  pile 
of  bills  over  his  head  where  he  slept  calmly  after  dinner. 
Iden  could  plant  potatoes,  and  cut  trusses  of  hay,  and  go 
through  his  work  to  appearance  unmoved. 

'  Amaryllis  could  not  draw — she  could  not  do  it  ;  her 
imagination  refused  to  see  the  idea;  the  more  she  con- 
centrated her  mind,  the  louder  she  heard  the  ceaseless 
grinding  and  gnashing  of  teeth. 

'  Potatoes  can  be  planted  and  nails  can  be  hammered, 
bill-hooks  can  be  wielded  and  faggots  chopped,  no  matter 
what  the  inward  care.  The  ploughman  is  deeply  in  debt, 
poor  fellow,  but  he  can,  and  does,  follow  the  plough,  and 
finds,  perhaps,  some  solace  in  the  dull  monotony  of  his 
labour.  Clods  cannot  feel.  A  sensitive  mind  and  vivid 
imagination — a  delicately-balanced  organization,  that 
almost  lives  on  its  ideas  as  veritable  food — cannot  do 
like  this.  The  poet,  the  artist,  the  author,  the  thinker, 
cannot  follow  their  plough  ;  their  work  depends  on  a 
serene  mind. 

'  But  experience  proves  that  they  do  do  their  work  under 
such  circumstances.  They  do  ;  how  greatly  then  they 
must  be  tortured,  or  for  what  a  length  of  time  they  must 
have  suffered  to  become  benumbed. 

*  Amaryllis  was  young,  and  all  her  feelings  unchecked 
of  Time.  She  could  not-  sketch — that  was  a  thing  of 
useless  paper  and  pencil ;  what  was  wanted  was  money. 
She  could  not  read,  that  was  not  real ;  what  was  wanted 
was  solid  coin. 

'  So  the  portfolio  was  thrust  aside,  neglected  and  covered 
with  dust,  but  she  came  every  day  to  her  flowers  in  the 
window-niche.  .  .  . 

'  She  loved  beauty  for  its  own  sake — she  loved  the  sun- 
hght,  the  grass  and  trees,  the  gleaming  water,  the  colours 
of  the  fields  and  of  the  sky.  To  listen  to  the  running 
water  was  to  her  a  dear  delight,  to  the  wind  in  the  high 

/ 


272       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

firs,  or  caught  in  the  wide-stretching  arms  of  the  oak  ;  she 
rested  among  these  things,  they  were  to  her  mind  as  sleep 
to  the  body.  The  few  good  pictures  she  had  seen  pleased 
her,  but  did  not  rouse  the  emotion  the  sunlight  caused  ; 
artificial  music  was  enjoyable,  but  not  like  the  running 
stream.     It  said  nothing — the  stream  was  full  of  thought. 

'  No  eager  desire  to  paint  like  that  or  play  like  that  was 
awakened  by  pictures  or  music  ;  Amaryllis  was  a  passive 
and  not  an  active  artist  by  nature.  And  I  think  that  is 
the  better  part ;  at  least,  I  know  it  is  a  thousand  times 
more  pleasure  to  me  to  see  a  beautiful  thing  than  to  write 
about  it.  Could  I  choose  I  would  go  on  seeing  beautiful 
things,  and  not  writing.'  * 

Or  she  kneels  and  prays  that  her  father  and  mother 
shall  be  richer  and  happier,  while  downstairs  the  creditors 
cry  aloud  :  '  Pay  me  that  thou  owest !' — '  the  very  sum 
and  total,'  says  Jefferies,  '  of  religion.'  Or,  at  the  end, 
she  sits  with  Amadis  in  the  garden. 

Jefferies  was  doubtless  thinking  of  his  own  early  troubles 
when  he  wrote  :  '  How  unnatural  it  seems  that  a  girl  like 
this,  that  young  and  fresh  and  full  of  generous  feeling  as  she 
was,  her  whole  mind  should  perforce  be  taken  up  with  the 
question  of  money  ;  an  unnatural  and  evil  state  of  things. ' 
And  Amaryllis  is,  in  fact,  a  pretty  and  happy-natured 
country  girl  with  the  character  of  the  youthful  J  eff eries, 
in  its  quick  temper,  independence,  sensitiveness,  and 
worship  of  beauty.  She  has  beautiful  hair,  but  is  not  yet 
more  than  the  promise  of  a  beautiful  woman.  She  is 
tall,  and  has  strong  ankles.  Of  her  appearance  he  tells 
us  little  more,  for  she  is  in  the  passage  between  childhood 
and  womanhood,  strong,  eager,  and  full  of  life,  but  some- 
thing dim,  as  one  of  her  age  often  is  within  the  cloud  of 
possibilities.  For  the  rest  she  is  a  Flamma  {i.e.,  a  Gyde), 
a  revolutionary  Flamma,  and  not  an  Iden  (a  Jefferies). 
As  with  Felise,  so  with  Amaryllis,  Jefferies  is  in  perfect 
sympathy  ;  he  enters  into  her  life,  he  sorrows  and  enjoys 
with  her,  and  not  only  with  her,  but  with  the  other 

*  Amaryllis  at  the  Fair. 


'  AMARYLLIS  AT  THE  FAIR  '  273 

characters.  He  cannot  detach  himself  from  them  and  let 
their  characters  work  out  a  doom.  He  is  up  and  among 
them  all  the  time,  and  they  have  him,  like  Rabelais,  seeing 
he  cannot  be  their  fellow-soldier, '  for  their  faithful  brother, 
refreshing  and  cheering,  according  to  his  little  power, 
their  return  from  the  alarms  of  the  enemy.'  He  moves 
from  one  to  the  other,  listening  for  the  music  swept  out  of 
them,  praising  them,  fearing  for  them — in  fact,  one  of  them, 
the  chief  character,  at  once  the  protagonist  and  the  chorus. 

Iden  is  drawn  in  the  same  way,  a  strong,  handsome, 
honest,  generous  man,  deserving  to  live  and  glorify  life, 
but  inevitably  going  under  the  sea  of  debt,  of  failure,  of 
a  good,  misunderstanding,  nervous  wife,  of  '  Fate.'  He 
plants  his  potatoes  himself,  stooping  in  his  ragged  coat 
while  the  March  wind  blows  : 

'  The  way  in  which  he  was  planting  potatoes  was  wonder- 
ful, every  potato  was  placed  at  exactly  the  right  distance 
apart,  and  a  hole  made  for  it  in  the  general  trench  ;  before 
it  was  set  it  was  looked  at  and  turned  over,  and  the  thumb 
rubbed  against  it  to  be  sure  that  it  was  sound,  and  when 
finally  put  in,  a  little  mould  was  deHcately  adjusted  round 
to  keep  it  in  its  right  position  till  the  whole  row  was 
buried.  He  carried  the  potatoes  in  his  coat-pocket — 
those,  that  is,  for  the  row — and  took  them  out  one  by 
one  ;  had  he  been  planting  his  own  children  he  could  not 
have  been  more  careful.'  * 

He  was  '  always  at  work,  and  he  could  talk  so  cleverly, 
too,'  thinks  Amaryllis  ;  '  and  knew  everything,  and  yet 
they  were  so  short  of  money.  How  could  this  be  ?'  Her 
wonder  at  this  is  like  Jefferies'  wonder  that  the  human 
race  has  not  yet  built  a  bam  for  its  own  use.  But  Iden 
will  have  his  mutton  good,  fetching  it  himself  in  a  flag 
basket,  and  seeing  that  it  is  hung. 

'  No  one  could  do  it  right  but  Mr.  Iden  himself.  There 
was  a  good  deal  of  reason  in  this  personal  care  of  the  meat, 
for  it  is  a  certain  fact  that  unless  you  do  look  after  such 
things  yourself,  and  that  persistently,  too,  you  never  get 

*  Amaryllis  at  jthe  Fair. 

18 


274       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

it  first-rate.  For  this  cause  people  in  grand  villas  scarcely 
ever  have  anything  worth  eating  on  their  tables.  Their 
household  expenses  reach  thousands  yearly,  and  yet  they 
rarely  have  anything  eatable,  and  their  dinner-tables  can 
never  show  meat,  vegetables,  or  fruit  equal  to  Mr.  Iden's. 
The  meat  was  dark  brown,  as  mutton  should  be,  for  if  it 
is  the  least  bit  white  it  is  sure  to  be  poor  ;  the  grain  was 
short,  and  ate  like  bread  and  butter,  firm,  and  yet  almost 
crumbling  to  the  touch  ;  it  was  full  of  juicy  red  gravy,  and 
cut  pleasantly,  the  knife  went  through  it  nicely  ;  you  can 
tell  good  meat  directly  you  touch  it  with  the  knife.  It  was 
cooked  to  a  turn,  and  had  been  done  at  a  wood  fire  on  a 
hearth  ;  no  oven  taste,  no  taint  of  coal-gas  or  carbon  ; 
the  pure  flame  of  wood  had  browned  it.  Such  emana- 
tions as  there  may  be  from  burning  logs  are  odorous  of 
the  woodland,  of  the  sunshine,  of  the  fields  and  fresh  air  ; 
the  wood  simply  gives  out  as  it  burns  the  sweetness  it  has 
imbibed  through  its  leaves  from  the  atmosphere  which 
floats  above  grass  and  flowers.  Essences  of  this  order,  if 
they  do  penetrate  the  fibres  of  the  meat,  add  to  its  flavour 
a  delicate  aroma.  Grass-fed  meat,  cooked  at  a  wood  fire, 
for  me. 

*  Wonderful  it  is  that  wealthy  people  can  endure  to 
have  their  meat  cooked  over  coal  or  in  a  shut-up  iron  box, 
where  it  kills  itself  with  its  own  steam,  which  ought  to 
escape.  But  then,  wealthy  villa  people  do  do  odd  things. 
Les  Miserahles  who  have  to  write  like  myself  must  put  up 
with  anything  and  be  thankful  for  permission  to  exist  ; 
but  people  with  mighty  incomes  from  tea,  or  crockery- 
ware,  or  mud,  or  bricks  and  mortar — why  on  earth  these 
happy  and  favoured  mortals  do  not  live  like  the  gods 
passes  understanding. 

'  Parisian  people  use  charcoal :  perhaps  Paris  will 
convert  some  of  you  who  will  not  listen  to  a  farmer. 

'  Mr.  Iden  had  himself  grown  the  potatoes  that  were 
placed  before  him.  They  were  white,  floury,  without  a 
drop  of  water  in  the  whole  dish  of  them.  They  were  equal 
to  the  finest  bread — far,  far  superior  to  the  bread  with 


'  AMARYLLIS  AT  THE  FAIR  '  275 

which  the  immense  city  of  London  permits  itself  to  be 
poisoned.  (It  is  not  much  better,  for  it  destroys  the 
digestion.)  This,  too,  with  wheat  at  thirty  shilhngs  the 
quarter,  a  price  which  is  in  itself  one  of  the  most  wonderful 
things  of  the  age.     The  finest  bread  ought  to  be  cheap. 

'  "  They  be  forty-folds,"  said  Mr.  I  den,  helping  himself 
to  half  a  dozen.  "  Look  at  the  gravy  go  up  into  um  hke 
tea  up  a  knob  of  sugar."    .    .   .'  * 

The  good  bread,  good  potatoes,  good  swede  greens,  and 
good  mutton,  are  a  matter  for  our  joy  as  long  as  human 
beings  remain  corrupt  and  carnivorous.  Yet  he  could  not 
drum  the  women  into  '  good,  soHd,  straightforward  eating ' ; 
they  must  have  herrings  for  tea,  snacks  of  pastry,  vinegar 
with  greens,  and  so  on.  Rhubarb  and  black  currants  he 
had  every  day  in  the  season,  and  used  to  sweeten  his  hands 
with  the  black-currant  leaves.  Jefferies  himself  liked 
food  and  drink,  if  we  may  judge  from  his  satisfaction  with 
the  great  eating  of  the  labourers  in  '  Greene  Feme  Farm  ' ; 
with  Hilary's  way  with  a  partridge,  and  his  *  lamb  is  never 
good  eating  without  sunshine  '  ;  with  the  many  pleasures 
of  eating,  if  it  be  only  home-made  bread  and  butter  in 
'  Bevis  '  ;  with  the  joint  and  tart  and  ale  in  '  Hodge  and 
His  Masters  '  ;  with  the  mullet  and  the  juicy  steak  and 
ale  in  '  The  Dewy  Morn  '  ;  and  his  love  of  ale  and  contempt 
for  lentils  in  '  Amaryllis.'  In  these  matters  he  has  at 
times  a  fervour  and  a  large  sacred  enjoyment  almost 
beyond  Charles  Lamb's. 

After  dinner,  Iden  muses  by  the  fire,  finishing  his  bread 
and  cheese,  grumbling  over  the  Standard;  then  he  drowses, 
his  face  resting  on  his  hand,  his  head  against  the  wainscot 
of  the  wall,  where  the  varnish  is  worn  away  and  even 
hollowed  : 

'  This  human  mark  reminded  one  of  the  grooves  worn 
by  the  knees  of  generations  of  worshippers  in  the  sacred 
steps  of  the  temple  which  they  ascended  on  all-fours. 
It  was,  indeed,  a  mark  of  devotion,  as  Mrs.  Iden  and  others, 
not  very  keen  observers,  would  have  said,  to  the  god  of 

♦  Amaryllis  at  the  Fair. 

18—2 


276       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

Sleep  ;  in  truth,  it  was  a  singular  instance  of  continued 
devotion  at  the  throne  of  the  god  of  Thought. 

'  It  was  to  think  that  Mr.  Iden  in  the  commencement 
assumed  this  posture  of  slumber,  and  commanded  silence. 
But  thought  which  has  been  cultivated  for  a  third  of  a 
century  is  apt  to  tone  down  to  something  very  near 
somnolence. 

'  That  panel  of  wainscot  was,  in  fact,  as  worthy  of 
preservation  as  those  on  which  the  early  artists  dehneated 
the  Madonna  and  Infant,  and  for  which  high  prices  are 
now  paid.  It  was  intensely  —  superlatively  —  human. 
Worn  in  slow  time  by  a  human  head  within  which  a  great 
mind  was  working  under  the  most  unhappy  conditions, 
it  had  the  deep  value  attaching  to  inanimate  things  which 
have  witnessed  intolerable  suffering. 

'  I  am  not  a  Roman  Catholic,  but  I  must  confess  that 
if  I  could  be  assured  any  particular  piece  of  wood  had 
really  formed  a  part  of  the  Cross  I  should  think  it  the 
most  valuable  thing  in  the  world,  to  which  Koh-i-noors 
would  be  mud. 

'  I  am  a  pagan,  and  think  the  heart  and  soul  above 
crowns. 

'  That  panel  was  in  effect  a  cross  on  which  a  heart  had 
been  tortured  for  the  third  of  a  century,  that  is,  for  the 
space  of  time  allotted  to  a  generation. 

'  That  mark  upon  the  panel  had  still  a  further  meaning, 
it  represented  the  unhappiness,  the  misfortunes,  the 
Nemesis  of  two  hundred  years.  This  family  of  Idens  had 
endured  already  two  hundred  years  of  unhappiness  and 
discordance  for  no  original  fault  of  theirs,  simply  because 
they  had  once  been  fortunate  of  old  time,  and  therefore 
they  had  to  work  out  that  hour  of  sunshine  to  the  utmost 
depths  of  shadow. 

'  The  panel  of  the  wainscot  upon  which  that  mark  had 
been  worn  was  in  effect  a  cross  upon  which  a  human  heart 
had  been  tortured — and  thought  can,  indeed,  torture — 
for  a  third  of  a  century.  For  Iden  had  learned  to  know 
himself,  and  despaired.'* 

*  Amaryllis  (it  the  J'\iit\ 


I 


'  AMARYLLIS  AT  THE  FAIR  '  277 

Mrs.  Iden  is  watching  him  through  the  window,  shaking 
her  fist  at  the  thinker  who  was  so  still  lest  he  should 
frighten  the  mice,  which  at  other  times  he  killed  without 
mercy.  After  this  Iden  has  a  baked  apple,  and  then  has  to 
be  nagged  at  by  his  wife,  who  can  only  now  clear  away 
the  dinner-things  and  get  ready  for  tea.  But  she  rushes 
away,  with  tea  unmade,  to  trample  the  daffodil  violently 
underfoot,  and  then,  locking  herself  in  her  bedroom,  to 
cry  over  an  old  glove. 

In  the  summer  evening,  after  haymaking,  Iden  would 
often  go  out  and  paddle  barefoot  in  the  sweet  wet  grass, 
and  Mrs.  Iden  would  nag  again,  because  nobody  else  did 
that.  They  have  lavender  in  the  garden,  and  when  the 
London  Flammas  ask  for  some  Coombe  Oaks  lavender, 
husband  and  wife  are  drawn  together  '  over  the  hedge  of 
lavender  '  for  a  little  while. 

One  day  Amaryllis  comes  down  after  dreaming — she 
often  dreamed  it — that  the  thatch  was  on  fire,  and  finds 
Iden  talking  with  Amadis  and  Alere,  newly  arrived.  Iden 
is  making  them  welcome,  and  they  are  talking  of  the  house 
which  '  the  Idens  of  yore  had  built  in  a  lonely  spot,  ex- 
pressly in  order  that  they  might  drink,  drink,  drink, 
undisturbed  by  their  unreasonable  wives.'  Then  they 
talk  in  the  garden.  It  is  all  Iden's  work,  and  it  was  said 
that  his  father  first  quarrelled  with  him  because  he  had 
made  it  beautiful  with  trees  and  flowers.  The  apple- 
bloom  falls  at  his  feet.  Iden  had  planted  the  trees.  '  It 
was  his  genius  to  make  things  grow  ...  a  sort  of  Pan,  a 
half-god  of  leaves  and  boughs,  and  reeds  and  streams,  a 
sort  of  Nature  in  human  shape,  moving  about  and  sowing 
Plenty  and  Beauty.'  He  could  never  hurry,  but  did  the 
work  that  lay  about  him — a  man  more  clearly  than  most 
others  a  part  of  the  creative  power  of  the  world,  at  one 
with  earth  and  wind  and  sea.  He  should  have  had  a  life 
as  long  as  Jefferies  desired — long  life,  long  sleep — '  forty 
hours  of  night  and  sleep  would  not  be  too  much.'  * 
He  lived  as  if  this  desire  would  be  fulfilled,  making 
immortal  oaken  gates  where  the  ordinary  farmer  would 

*   The  Story  of  My  Heart. 


278       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

have  used  a  couple  of  rails.  The  best  timber  well 
seasoned,  the  best  workmanship,  no  haste,  plenty  of 
talk  and  plenty  of  '  Goliath  '  ale  for  the  carpenter  :  '  it 
was  the  Iden  way.' 

Beside  him,  Mrs.  Iden  is  hardly  more  than  a  ghost, 
nervous,  irritable,  shrill,  shuffling,  dissatisfied  with  every- 
thing .  .  .  but  a  very  real  ghost  such  as  abounds  in  this 
world.  She  lives  chiefly  in  the  passage  where  she  has 
been  abusing  Luce,  the  maid,  for  not  doing  things  which 
are  in  fact  done. 

'  So,  flinging  the  duster  at  Luce,  out  she  flew  into  the 
court,  and  thence  into  the  kitchen,  where  she  cut  a  great 
slice  of  bread  and  cheese,  and  drew  a  quart  of  ale,  and 
took  them  out  to  Bill  Nye. 

'  "  Aw,  thank'ee  m'm,"  said  Bill,  from  the  very  depth 
of  his  chest,  and  set  to  work  happily. 

'  Next,  she  drew  a  mug  for  Jearje,  who  held  it  with  one 
hand  and  sipped,  while  he  turned  with  the  other  ;  his 
bread  and  cheese  he  ate  in  like  manner,  he  could  not  wait 
till  he  had  finished  the  churning. 

'  "  Verily,  man  is  made  up  of  impatience,"  said  the 
angel  Gabriel  in  the  Koran,  as  you  no  doubt  remember  ; 
Adam  was  made  of  clay  (who  was  the  sculptor's  ghost 
that  modelled  him  ?),  and  when  the  breath  of  life  was 
breathed  into  him,  he  rose  on  his  arm  and  begun  to  eat 
before  his  lower  limbs  were  yet  vivified.  This  is  a  fact. 
"  Verily,  man  is  made  up  of  impatience."  As  the  angel 
had  never  had  a  stomach  or  anything  to  sit  upon,  as  the 
French  say,  he  need  not  have  made  so  unkind  a  remark  ; 
if  he  had  had  a  stomach  and  a  digestion  like  Bill  Nye  and 
Jearje,  it  is  certain  he  would  never  have  wanted  to  be  an 
angel. 

'  Next,  there  were  four  cottage  children  now  in  the  court, 
waiting  for  scraps. 

'  Mrs.  Iden,  bustling  to  and  fro  like  a  whirlwind,  swept 
the  poor  little  things  into  the  kitchen  and  filled  two 
baskets  for  them  with  slices  of  bread  and  butter,  squares 
of  cheese,  a  beef  bone,  half  a  rabbit,  a  dish  of  cold  potatoes. 


'  AMARYLLIS  AT  THE  FAIR  '  279 

two  bottles  of  beer  from  the  barrel,  odds  and  ends,  and  so 
swept  them  off  again  in  a  jiffy. 

'  Mrs.  Iden  !  Mrs.  Iden  !  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself,  that  is  not  the  way  to  feed  the  poor.  What 
could  you  be  thinking  of,  you  ignorant  farmer's  wife  !  .  .  . 

'  No  wasteful  bread  and  butter,  no  scandalous  cheese, 
no  abominable  beef  bone,  no  wretched  rabbit,  no  prodigal 
potatoes,  above  all,  No  immoral  ale  ! 

'  There,  Mrs.  Iden. 

'  Go  to  the  famous  Henry  Ward  Beecher,  that  shining 
light  and  apostle,  Mrs.  Iden,  and  read,  mark,  learn,  and 
inwardly  digest  what  he  says  : 

'  "  A  man  who  cannot  live  on  bread  is  not  fit  to  live. 
A  family  may  live,  laugh,  love,  and  be  happy  that  eats 
bread  in  the  morning  with  good  water,  and  water  and 
good  bread  at  noon,  and  water  and  bread  at  night." 

'  Does  that  sound  like  an  echo  of  the  voice  that  ceased 
on  the  Cross  ? 

'  Guilty  Mrs.  Iden,  ignorant  farmer's  wife  ;  hide  your 
beef  and  ale,  your  rabbit  and  potatoes.  .  .  .'  * 

Such  lively,  faithful  scenes  of  domestic  life,  and  such 
luxuriant  colouring  out  of  Jefferies'  prejudice,  are  of  the 
essence  of  the  book.  It  is  with  Grandfather  Iden  that 
there  is  some  dramatic  play  of  characters,  and  the  conflict 
of  Iden  and  Flamma  blood  is  most  nearly  seen  between 
him  and  Amaryllis.  They  are  side  by  side  for  some  time, 
the  fair  child  and  the  grim  ancient  man  bent  like  an  S. 
Amaryllis  is  angry  with  him  for  his  quarrel  with  her 
father,  and  yet  giving  way  a  little  for  her  family's  sake. 
The  old  man  is  fond  of  hef^ — he  in  his  '  great,  grey,  tottering 
hat,'  bent  under  as  heavy  a  load  as  strong  Jack  Duck 
under  two  sacks  of  wheat — fond  of  roast  pork  as  of  flowers 
and  bright  leaves,  fond  of  the  lord  of  the  manor  and  all 
his  works,  cherishing  a  Beaconsfield  peacock's  feather. 
At  the  dinner  he  goes  from  chair  to  chair  of  the  thirty- 
two  sycophantic  relatives  expecting  gold.  Coming  to  his 
son's  empty  chair,  he  stands  and  leans  over  it,  the  happy 

*  Amaryllis  at  the  Fair. 


28o       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

chatterers  suddenly  still ;  and  as  he  groans,  Amaryllis 
thinks  him  more  monstrous  than  ever,  remembering 
the  crack  in  her  mother's  boot.  As  a  great  treat  he 
takes  her  over  the  Pamments'  manor-house,  but,  sick  of 
him  and  of  the  young  Pamment's  eye  for  her,  she  breaks 
away  and  runs  home,  and  the  quarrel  is  reinforced  by  a 
letter  about  the  neglect  of  her  education.  Everything 
in  the  book  is  as  natural  as  that.  It  is  that  plain,  coarse, 
bitter,  occasionally  merry  life,  with  no  developing  story 
to  lure  us  on,  stated  with  mordant  ease,  which  is  of  all 
things  the  most  rarely  achieved.  The  labourers  and  Luce, 
the  maid,  work  and  eat  and  drink  ;  there  is  no  mystery  ; 
no  one  loves  above  him  in  rank  ;  but  they  appear  and 
reappear  with  a  truth  which  hardly  any  English  writer 
has  given  to  agricultural  labourers.  Jefferies  does  not 
go  far  with  them  ;  he  has  no  occasion  ;  they  are  only 
clattering  about  the  yard  :  but  his  handling  is  absolutely 
sympathetic  and  understanding.  Mr.  Hardy  is  far  more 
dramatic,  far  more  psychological,  and  also  far  cleverer  in 
effects,  but  he  is  seldom  so  right.  Barnes  has  the  same 
homeliness  and  close  observation,  but  with  an  idyllic 
colouring  or  suppression. 

Jefferies'  friendly  intimacy  with  his  characters  is 
nowhere  so  hearty  as  with  Alere  Flamma.  He  is  in 
many  ways  different  from  his  creator  or  reviver,  but  it 
gave  Jefferies  great  pleasure  to  think  about  him.  He 
is  far  from  the  ideal  man  such  as  Jefferies  might  have 
created  at  the  time  of  '  The  Story  of  My  Heart,'  but  in 
the  real  world  of  the  remaining  actual  years  Alere  was 
after  his  own  heart.  Jefferies  enters  so  much  into  the 
spirit  of  his  devil-may-care  generosity,  tenderness,  inde- 
pendence and  mirth  that  he  does  not  trouble  to  put 
speeches  into  Alere's  mouth,  and  in  places  the  two  are 
indivisible.  The  Flamma  family,  says  Jefferies,  was 
mercurial,  revolutionary,  hot  republican,  a  '  nervous, 
excitable,  passionate,  fidgety,  tipsy,  idle,  good-for- 
nothing  lot  .  .  .  almost  all  flecked  with  talent  like  white 
foam  on  a  black  horse,  a  spot  or  two  of  genius,  and  the 


'  AMARYLLIS  AT  THE  FAIR  '  281 

rest  black  guilt  or  folly.'  Alere's  shaking  hands  could 
'  draw  deHcate  lines  without  a  flaw  '  (as  Fred  Gyde  drew 
Day  House  Farm).  He  made  designs  for  bindings,  did 
some  of  the  tooling  himself,  drew  and  engraved,  and  helped 
in  the  printing-house  in  Fleet  Street.  He  had  drawers 
full  of  unsorted  sketches,  landscapes,  flowers,  studies  from 
the  nude.  His  studio  was  a  plain,  not  very  old  room, 
with  no  gauntlets  and  breastplates,  Turkish  guns,  no 
'  properties,'  but  books  everywhere,  and  music,  '  for 
Flamma  was  fond  of  his  many-keyed  flute.'  He  could 
not  get  out  of  Fleet  Street.  There  he  lived  and  worked, 
and  '  he  could  stop  when  he  liked  and  take  a  swig  of  stout.' 
He  did  as  he  chose,  not  as  bidden  ;  and  so  made  little 
money,  and  only  a  little  fame. 

'  Alere  liked  pulling  off  the  proofs  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
swigging  his  stout,  smoking  on  the  sly,  working  with  all 
the  genius  of  an  inspired  mechanic  one  moment  and 
dropping  into  absolute  idleness  the  next,  spending  infinite 
pains  in  finishing  one  bit  of  work,  as  if  his  very  life 
depended  on  the  smoothing  of  an  edge  of  paper,  putting 
off  the  next  till  the  end  of  the  month,  pottering,  sleeping, 
gossiping,  dreaming  over  old  German  works,  and  especially 
dreaming  over  Goethe,  humming  old  German  songs — 
for  he  had  been  a  great  traveller — sometimes  scrawling 
a  furious  Mazzinian  onslaught  in  a  semi-Nihilist  foreign 
print,  collecting  stray  engravings,  wandering  hither  and 
thither. 

'  Alere  Flamma,  artist,  engraver,  bookbinder,  con- 
noisseur, traveller,  printer,  repubhcan,  conspirator,  sot, 
smoker,  dreamer,  poet,  kind-hearted,  good-natured, 
prodigal,  shiftless,  man  of  Fleet  Street,  carpet-bag  man, 
gentleman  shaken  to  pieces. 

'  He  worked  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and  drank  stout,  but 
nothing  vulgar  had  ever  been  recorded  against  Alere 
Flamma.  He  frequented  strong  company — very  strong 
meat — but  no  vile  word  left  his  hps.'  * 

Jefferies  is  almost  envious  of  this  so  different  life.     He 

*  Amaryllis  at  the  Fair, 


282       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

always  hankered  after  travel  and  adventure,  but  he  did 
not  go  farther  than  to  receive,  but  not  to  accept,  an 
invitation  to  go  out  as  correspondent  to  the  Zulu  War ; 
lying  ill  in  January,  1886,  he  regretted  that  he  had  not 
gone. 

Alere  worked  until  he  had  perhaps  ten  pounds,  and  then 
paused,  and  smoked,  and  gave  away  his  money.  He  '  did 
not  seem  to  trouble  himself  about  the  dogs  '  in  London 
streets  ;  '  he  saw  so  much  of  the  human  nuisances.'  He 
and  Jefferies  thought  little  of  the  organization  of  which 
the  one  great  advantage  is  that  '  by  no  possible  means 
can  you  risk  giving  a  penny  to  a  man  not  of  high  moral 
character,  though  he  be  perishing  of  starvation.'  He 
was  no  genius  neglected  or  destroyed  by  intemperance  : 
he  simply  had  no  ambition  and  no  '  business  avarice.' 
When  the  rats  began  to  run  up  the  waU  in  broad  daylight, 
he  packed  his  carpet-bag  and  came  to  Coombe  Oaks  ; 
and  presently  he  began  to  sing  old  songs,  student-songs, 
songs  from  Goethe,  and  played  '  delicious  airs  of  Mozart 
chiefly '  for  Amaryllis. 

'  By  Flamma's  side  there  stood  a  great  mug  of  the 
Goliath  ale,  and  between  his  lips  there  was  a  long  church- 
warden pipe. 

'  The  Goliath  ale  was  his  mineral  water  ;  his  gaseous, 
alkaline,  chalybeate  liquor  ;  better  by  far  than  Kissingen, 
Homburg,  Vichy  ;  better  by  far  than  mud  baths  and  hot 
springs.  There  is  no  medicine  in  nature,  or  made  by 
man,  like  good  ale.     He  who  drinks  ale  is  strong. 

'  The  bitter  principle  of  the  aromatic  hops  went  to  his 
nervous  system,  to  the  much-suffering  liver,  to  the  clogged 
and  weary  organs,  bracing  and  stimulating,  urging  on, 
vitalizing  anew. 

'  The  spirit  drawn  from  the  joyous  barley  warmed  his 
heart ;  a  cordial  grown  on  the  sunny  hill-side,  watered 
with  dew  and  sweet  rain,  coloured  by  the  light,  a  liquor 
of  sunshine,  potable  sunbeam. 

'  Age  mingling  hops  and  barley  in  that  just  and  equit- 
able proportion,   no  cunning  of  hand,   no  science   can 


'  AMARYLLIS  AT  THE  FAIR  *  283 

achieve,  gave  to  it  the  vigour  of  years,  the  full  manhood 
of  strength. 

'  There  was  in  it  an  alchemic  power  analysis  cannot 
define.  The  chemist  analyzes,  and  he  finds  of  ten  parts, 
there  are  this  and  there  are  that,  and  the  residue  is 
"  volatile  principle,"  for  which  all  the  dictionaries  of 
science  have  no  explanation. 

'  "  Volatile  principle  " — there  it  is,  that  is  the  secret. 
That  is  the  life  of  the  thing  ;  by  no  possible  means  can 
you  obtain  that  volatile  principle — that  alchemic  force — 
except  contained  in  genuine  old  ale. 

'  Only  it  must  be  genuine,  and  it  must  be  old  ;  such  as 
Iden  brewed. 

'  The  Idens  had  been  famous  for  ale  for  generations. 

*  By  degrees  Alere's  hand  grew  less  shaky  ;  the  glass 
ceased  to  chink  against  his  teeth  ;  the  strong,  good  ale 
was  setting  his  Fleet  Street  liver  in  order. 

'  You  have  "  liver,"  you  have  "  dyspepsia,"  you  have 
"  kidneys,"  you  have  "  abdominal  glands,"  and  the  doctor 
tells  you  you  must  take  bitters — i.e.,  quassia,  buchu, 
gentian,  cascarilla,  calumba ;  aperients  and  diluents, 
podophyllin,  taraxacum,  salts  ;  physic  for  the  nerves  and 
blood,  quinine,  iron,  phosphorus  ;  this  is  but  the  briefest 
outline  of  your  draughts  and  preparations  ;  add  to  it,  for 
various  purposes,  liquor  arsenicalis,  bromide  of  potassium, 
strychnia,  belladonna. 

'  Weary  and  disappointed,  you  turn  to  patent  medicines 
— American  and  French  patent  physic  is  very  popular 
now — and  find  the  same  things  precisely  under  taking 
titles,  enormously  advertised. 

'  It  is  a  fact  that  nine  out  of  ten  of  the  medicines  com- 
pounded are  intended  to  produce  exactly  the  same  effects 
as  are  caused  by  a  few  glasses  of  good  old  ale.  The 
objects  are  to  set  the  great  glands  in  motion,  to  regulate 
the  stomach,  brace  the  nerves,  and  act  as  a  tonic  and 
cordial ;  a  little  ether  put  in  to  aid  the  digestion  of  the 
compound.  This  is  precisely  what  good  old  ale  does,  and 
digests   itself   very  comfortably.      Above  all  things,   it 


284       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

contains  the  volatile  principle,  which  the  prescriptions 
have  not  got. 

'  Many  of  the  compounds  actually  are  beer,  bittered 
with  quassia  instead  of  hops  ;  made  nauseous  in  order 
that  you  may  have  faith  in  them. 

'  "  Throw  physic  to  the  dogs,"  get  a  cask  of  the  true 
Goliath,  and  "  drenk  un  down  to  the  therd  hoop." 

'  Long  before  Alere  had  got  to  the  first  hoop  the  rats 
ceased  to  run  up  the  wall,  his  hand  became  less  shaky,  he 
began  to  play  a  very  good  knife  and  fork  at  the  bacon  and 
Iden's  splendid  potatoes  ;  by-and-by  he  began  to  hum  old 
German  songs. 

'  But  you  may  ask,  how  do  you  know,  you're  not  a 
doctor,  you're  a  mere  story-spinner,  you're  no  authority  ? 
I  reply  that  I  am  in  a  position  to  know  much  more  than  a 
doctor. 

'  How  can  that  be  ? 

'  Because  I  have  been  a  Patient.  It  is  so  much  easier 
to  be  a  doctor  than  a  patient.  The  doctor  imagines  what 
his  prescriptions  are  like  and  what  they  will  do  ;  he 
imagines,  but  the  Patient  knows'* 

He  completes  the  charm  of  Coombe  Oaks  and  of 
'  Amaryllis  at  the  Fair  '  : 

'  There  was  Alere  Flamma  singing  in  the  summer- 
house  ;  Amadis  Iden  resting  on  the  form  ;  Amaryllis 
standing  by  him  ;  Bill  Nye  munching  ;  Jearje  indolently 
rotating  the  churn  with  one  hand,  and  feeding  himself 
with  the  other  ;  Luce  sitting  down  to  her  lunch  in  the 
kitchen  ;  Iden  lifting  his  mug  in  the  bow-window  ;  Jack 
Duck  with  his  great  mouth  full ;  eight  people — and  four 
little  children  trotting  down  the  road  with  baskets  of 
food. 

'  "  The  lazy  lot  of  people  in  this  house  ;  I  never  saw 
anything  like  it." 

'  And  that  was  the  beauty  of  the  place,  the  "  Let  us 
not  trouble  ourselves  ;"  "  a  handful  in  Peace  and  Quiet  " 
is  better  than  set  banquets  ;  crumbs  for  everybody,  and 

*  Antaryllis  at  the  Fair. 


\ 


'  AMARYLLIS  AT  THE  FAIR  '  285 

for  the  robin,  too  ;  "  God  listens  to  those  who  pray  to 
Him.  Let  us  eat,  and  drink,  and  think  of  nothing  ;" 
beheve  me,  the  plain  plenty,  and  the  rest,  and  peace,  and 
sunshine  of  an  old  farmhouse,  there  is  nothing  like  it  in 
this  world ! 

'  "  I  never  saw  anything  hke  it.  Nothing  done ; 
nothing  done  ;  the  morning  gone  and  nothing  done  ;  and 
the  butter's  not  come  yet  !" 

'  Homer  is  thought  much  of  ;  now,  his  heroes  are  always 
eating.  They  eat  all  through  the  "  Iliad,"  they  eat  at 
Patroclus'  tomb ;  Ulysses  eats  a  good  deal  in  the 
"  Odyssey  "  :  Jupiter  eats.  They  only  did  at  Coombe 
Oaks  as  was  done  on  Olympus.' 

Such  a  mixture  never  was  :  the  man  from  Fleet  Street 
playing  Mozart,  Iden  making  his  immortal  gate,  lovely 
Amaryllis  tending  the  sick  Amadis,  the  labourers  at  their 
work  or  drinking  the  good  ale,  the  apple-bloom  falling, 
the  buttercups  high  in  the  meadow,  the  shadow  of  the 
bailiff  still  in  possession. 

Next  after  '  The  Story  of  My  Heart '  comes  '  Amarylhs  * 
as  a  complete,  expressive  book,  full  of  Jefferies  himself 
and  of  the  world  as  he  saw  it.  In  the  autobiography  he 
was  overflowing  with  the  inspiration  which  he  had  been 
receiving  in  solitude  for  the  first  thirty  years  of  his  life, 
and  its  proper  expression  was  the  solemn,  swift,  joyful, 
but  mirthless  ecstasy  of  that  book.  In  '  Amaryllis ' 
there  is  no  speed,  no  sweep  of  thought  like  the  long  line 
of  the  sculptured,  houseless  Downs,  but,  instead,  the 
crowded  criss-cross  lines  of  the  ridgy  hamlet,  with  gable, 
and  roof,  and  chimney,  and  rick,  and  elm,  and  the  vast 
honeycomb  of  London  itself.  Yet  it  is  just  as  much  a 
whole,  full  as  it  is  of  unconventional  masterly  transitions, 
breathing  one  spirit.  Here  Jefferies'  rebelliousness  comes 
down  from  heaven  to  the  street :  the  church,  charity, 
architecture,  London,  everything  as  it  is,  makes  a  butt 
for  laughter,  scorn,  and  hate — everything  save  the  hearts 
of  men.  Sometimes  he  has  a  large  ripe  sadness,  which 
is  not  the  wasteful,  fatal  sadness  at  all,  as  when  he  worships 


286       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

the  wainscot  worn  by  his  father's  head  ;  or  he  has  a  naive, 
ferocious  anger,  as  when  he  points  to  the  men  and  women 
tramps,  the  Things,  that  go  sUp-slop  to  the  fair,  '  not 
equal  in  value  to  the  sheep  .  .  .  not  worth  anything  when 
they're  dead,'  '  Fate  '  is  here  stronger  than  ever  :  Iden 
is  unfortunate  for  a  hundred  reasons,  and  '  after  all  said 
and  done,  Fate.'  Everything  '  is  in  the  Turkish  manner,' 
he  says,  making  Grand- Viziers  of  Barbers,  making  great 
Iden  and  fair  Amaryllis  the  quarry  of  creditors.  Never- 
theless, night  has  enfolded  the  hamlet,  lamps  are  lighted, 
the  snow  is  piled  without,  and  Mrs.  Iden  has  warmed  her 
elder  wine  ;  her  husband's  potatoes  are  buried  in  the  warm 
ashes  :  Jefferies  has  but  two  years  to  live,  and  it  is  loving- 
kindness  which,  after  all,  he  feels  and  makes  feel,  as  he 
draws  up  to  the  fire,  towards  a  world  not  yet  fit  for  the 
life  he  dreamed  of  on  the  Dov^ns.  Until  men  and  women 
are  ready  for  that  paUet  '  in  the  midst  of  air  and  light,' 
that  plain  and  simple  house,  there  is  much  goodness  in 
the  farm  when  men  speak  truth  and  drain  large  cups. 
With  all  its  unhappiness,  the  house,  and  in  some  degree 
the  book,  with  all  its  honesty,  is  a  consoling  one.  We 
seem  to  hear  the  poet  who  sang  :  A  great  storm  comes 
out  of  the  heavens,  the  streams  are  frostbound  ;  pile  up 
the  fire,  mix  lavishly  the  honey-sweet  wine,  and  lay  your 
head  on  a  cushion  soft. 

'  Let  the  grandees  go  to  the  opera,'  he  says  ;  '  for 
me  the  streets.'  In  his  mind  he  cannot  get  away  from 
that  terrible  beautiful  '  thickness  of  people,'  London, 
any  more  than  Alere  could.  The  vastness,  variety, 
complexity,  opulence,  disorder,  are  a  delight  as  well 
as  a  pain.  It  is  all  wrong,  and  meantime  let  us  love 
it — love  it,  except  the  sycophancy  and  the  tyranny  ; 
Jefferies  would  add  also  '  thrift  and — twaddle.'  How 
delicious,  he  says — the  man  who  has  to  crawl  upstairs  on 
hands  and  knees  when  he  is  so  fortunate  as  to  have  got 
downstairs  ! — '  How  delicious  now  to  walk  down  Regent 
Street,  along  Piccadilly,  up  Bond  Street,  and  so  on,  in  a 
widening  circle,  with  a  thousand  pounds  in  one's  pocket, 


*  AMARYLLIS  AT  THE  FAIR  '  287 

just  to  spend,  all  your  own,  and  no  need  to  worry  when 
it  was  gone  !   .   .   . 

'  The  exquisite  delight  of  utterly  abandoned  extrava- 
gance, no  counting — anathemas  on  counting  and  calcula- 
tion !     If  life  be  not  a  dream,  what  is  the  use  of  living  ? 

'  Say  what  you  will,  the  truth  is  we  all  struggle  on  in 
hope  of  living  in  a  dream  some  day.  This  is  my  dream. 
Dreadfully,  horribly  wicked,  is  it  not,  in  an  age  that 
preaches  thrift  and — twaddle  ?' 

London  seems  to  him  to  have  something  of  the  ex- 
uberant carelessness  of  Nature,  still  pouring  gifts,  still 
inexhaustible,  as  careless  also  of  men.  He  says,  '  if  he 
could  only  write  the  inner  life  of  Fleet  Street,'  he  would 
vanquish  Balzac,  Zola,  Hugo,  '  not  in  any  grace  of  style 
or  sweeping  march  of  diction,  but  just  pencil-jotted  in 
the  roughest  words  to  hand,  just  as  rich  and  poor,  well- 
dressed  ladies  and  next-door  beggars  are  bundled  into  a 
train.'  In  no  other  book  but  this,  written  under  the 
inspiration  of  London,  wTitten  '  to  describe  a  bit  of  human 
life  exactly  as  it  really  is,'  would  he  have  found  a  place 
for  Raleigh  Pamment,  '  late  hours,  tobacco,  whisky,  and 
ballet-dancers  writ  very  large  indeed  on  his  broad  face,' 
who  was  a  hero  to  his  valet.  The  valet '  swore  in  Raleigh's 
very  words,  and  used  to  spit  like  him.'  Jefferies  seems  to 
see  a  breath  of  the  Divine  in  this  sportsman's  generous 
energy,  perhaps  in  his  free  spending  of  money. 

It  is  a  medley,  '  in  the  Turkish  manner,'  like  life  itself, 
with  a  Pantagruelian  flow — Red  Lion  Court,  Coate 
Farm,  sweetest  fields  of  love,  and  early  morning  pave- 
ments spotted  by  expectorations — the  rich  crowd,  and 
then  old  Dr.  Butler  with  his  '  Hum  !  A'  have  lived 
twenty  years  on  pork.  Let  'n  yet  it !'  and  '  If  you  want 
to  get  well,  you  go  for  a  walk  in  the  maming  afore  the 
aair  have  been  braathed  auver.'  The  urn  is  shaken, 
but  the  lot -drawers  take  their  fates  in  a  dream.  In  no 
other  of  his  books  does  his  humour,  so  much  despised,  show 
itself  so  abundantly.  He  had  not  humour  according  to  the 
largest  definition  that  can  be  given  to  the  word.     It  was 


288       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

not  twisted  inextricably  into  the  strands  of  his  nature  ; 
it  was  often  invisible,  and  let  us  be  thankful  for  it  that 
yet  another  man  of  genius  has  been  denied  this  heaven- 
descended  monkey  as  a  lifelong  inseparable  companion. 
Yet  humour  he  had,  if  humour  can  be  intermittent.  It 
takes  several  forms.  It  perceives  the  minor  inconsistencies 
of  life,  and  can  become  jocularity.  The  commonest  form 
is  archness,  a  quiet  dryness,  with  a  twist  in  the  phrasing 
peculiar  to  him — something  so  personal  as  to  suggest  a 
trick  of  speech  or  facial  expression.  Thus,  he  describes 
the  way  in  which  the  spell  of  the  low  publican  draws* 
'  logs  of  timber  and  faggots  half  across  the  parish,  which 
will  pull  pheasants  off  their  perch,  extract  trout  from  the 
deep,  and  stay  the  swift  hare  in  midst  of  her  career.' 
And  '  who,'  he  asks,t '  would  suspect  an  oyster  of  deceit  ?' 
and  teUs  of  an  old  gentleman  who  insisted  on  having  his 
oysters  opened,  not  at  the  shop,  but  at  his  door.  '  He 
feared  the  craft  and  subtility  of  the  wicked  oyster.'  So, 
again,  in  the  passage  on  the  pewter  tankard  in  '  Greene 
Feme  Farm.'  Facetiousness  is  never  far  away,  as  in 
'  Fish  somehow  slip  through  ordinary  rules,  being  slimy 
of  surface.'  It  can  descend  to  a  mere  one-man  drollery, 
or  to  an  elephantine  jeer,  or  a  snarling  chuckle,  as  at 
charity,  thrift,  hygiene,  etc.  It  can  rise  also  to  a  sar- 
castic extravagance,  as  when  he  asked  why  the  otter  is 
killed  in  the  Thames.  J  '  Has  he  ravaged  the  fields  ? 
Does  he  threaten  the  homesteads  ?  Is  he  at  Temple 
Bar  ?  Are  we  to  run,  as  the  old  song  says,  from  the 
Dragon  ?'  To  be  described  as  dr^ly  amusing,  perhaps, 
are  such  passages  as  where  he  speaks  of  that  '  marvel  of 
our  civilization  ' — '  The  Thames  is  swearing-free.  .  .  . 
You  may  begin  at  the  mouth,  off  the  Nore,  and  curse  your 
way  up  to  Cricklade.  A  hundred  miles  for  swearing  is  a  fine 
preserve.'  Sometimes  it  lends  him  an  admirable  metaphor. 
But  in  '  Amaryllis  '  it  makes  its  nearest  approach  to 
true  irony,  and  perhaps  is  such,  in  spite  of  a  certain 

*  Hodiic  and  His  Masters.  t  The  Deny  Mom. 

X  The  Open  Air. 


•  AMARYLLIS  AT  THE  FAIR  '  289 

self-consciousness  which  makes  the  reader  pretty  sure 
that  these  things  are  not  yet  part  of  the  writer's  natural 
armour,  but  are  like  javelins  used  for  the  moment's 
purpose,  a  little  feverishly,  as  in  this  : 

'  I  would  infinitely  rather  be  a  tallow-chandler,  with  a 
good,  steady  income  and  no  thought,  than  an  author; 
at  the  first  opportunity  I  mean  to  go  into  the  tallow 
business.' 

Or  in  this  : 

'  Some  noble  physicians  have  tried  the  effect  of  dinigs 
upon  themselves  in  order  to  advance  their  art  ;  for  this 
they  have  received  Gold  Medals,  and  are  alluded  to  as 
Benefactors  of  Mankind. 

'  I  have  tried  the  effects  of  forty  prescriptions  upon 
My  Person.  With  the  various  combinations,  patent 
medicines,  and  so  forth,  the  total  would,  I  verily  believe, 
reach  eighty  drugs. 

'  Consequently,  it  is  clear  I  ought  to  receive  eighty  gold 
medals.  I  am  a  Benefactor  eighty  times  multiplied  ;  the 
incarnation  of  virtue  ;  a  sort  of  Buddha.  Kiss  my  knees, 
ye  slaves  ! 

'  I  have  a  complaisant  feeling  as  I  walk  about  that  I 
have  thus  done  more  good  than  any  man  living. 

*  I  am  still  very  ill.' 

It  is  best  of  all  where  it  is  least  verbal,  where  it  lurks 
and  gives  a  glow  to  whole  pages,  as  in  the  description  of 
Iden's  dinner.  It  is,  however,  let  us  admit,  an  armour 
which  he  is  assuming  against  the  world,  now  that  increas- 
ing poverty  and  illness  have  denied  him  the  Downs,  and 
oncoming  age  has  denied  him  the  dream.  For  there  are 
two  ways  of  opposing  the  world  —  by  poetry,  by  en- 
thusiasm, when  a  man  believes  in  his  dream,  in  spite 
of  the  contradictions  of  life  ;  and  by  humour,  when  he 
smiles  at  the  contrast  between  himself  and  the  Other 
Dreamer  whose  dreams  came  true. 


19 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

'FIELD  AND  HEDGEROW  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS- 
DEATH 

*  Field  and  Hedgerow  '  was  published  in  January,  1889, 
and  consists  largely  of  Jefferies'  latest  essays,  composed 
during  his  last  illness  at  Sea  View,  Goring,  together  v\ith 
some  of  considerably  earlier  date — '  Nature  in  the  Louvre,' 
for  example,  having  been  written  early  in  1884,  while 
'  Field  Sports  in  Art '  was  published  in  1885.  Other 
essays  of  the  same  and  earlier  dates  were  piinted  in  the 
posthumous  '  Toilers  of  the  Field  '  of  1892.  Some  that 
were  printed  in  the  magazines  have  not  been  reprinted. 
Their  subjects  are  taken  from  the  neighbourhood  of  Coate, 
of  Surbiton,  of  Brighton,  of  Crowborough,  and  from 
London,  Exmoor,  and  the  Quantocks.  Some  of  these 
have  already  been  touched  on  ;  some,  like  '  An  Extinct 
Race,'  '  Orchis  Mascula,'  '  The  Golden-crested  Wren,'  and 
'  House  Martins,'  are  too  slight  to  be  valuable  except  to 
the  complete  lover  of  Jefferies  ;  others  belong  to  the  same 
class  of  irregular,  patchwork  essays  as  several,  heretofore 
mentioned,  in  '  The  Life  of  the  Fields  '  and  '  The  Open 
Air.'  Such  are,  for  example,  '  Country  Places,'  '  April 
Gossip,'  '  The  Time  of  Year,'  and  '  Mixed  Days  of  May 
and  December.'  The  rest  fall  into  the  other  two  classes — 
of  essays,  first,  dealing  more  or  less  systematically  with  a 
definite  subject,  as  in  '  Nature  and  Books,'  '  Locality  and 
Nature,'  '  Field  Sports  in  Art,'  '  After  the  County 
Franchise,'  and  the  introduction  to  White's  '  Selborne  '; 
and,  second,  of  essays  which  have  a  structure  made  at 
least  as  much  by  the  emotions  as  by  the  intellect,  and 

290 


LAST  ESSAYS  291 

such  are,  among  others,  '  Hours  of  Spring,'  '  Winds  of 
Heaven,'  '  My  Old  Village,'  and  '  Nature  and  Eternity.' 
The  best  of  these  two  classes  are  examples  of  Jefferies' 
ripest  art  and  most  advanced  ideas,  even  though  he  could 
often  see  the  clouds  only  through  a  window,  and  could 
escape  from  pain,  from  '  the  iron  grip  of  hell,'  only  for 
moments  while  he  was  writing  them.  In  several  it  is 
clear  that  he  is  thinking  about  death  as  something  that 
is  for  him.  In  the  passage  on  phthisis,  which  he  had  been 
studying,  in  '  Some  April  Insects  ';  in  the  sadness  of  the 
hour  when  he  saw  the  emperor  moth  on  that  sunny 
second  day  of  April — '  to  think  it  will  never  return  ';  in 
the  looking  back  (in  '  Walks  in  the  Wheatfields  '  and  '  My 
Old  Village  ')  to  Coate,  to  the  cornfields  under  the  Downs, 
and  to  the  brook  ;  in  the  vividness  of  his  Crowborough 
winter  picture — in  these  things  there  is  death. 

His  own  poverty  and  pain  contributed,  perhaps,  a  little 
to  the  bitterness  of  his  writing  on  poverty  at  this  time. 
He  would  revive  the  tithe — '  the  monstrous  injustice  of 
the  extraordinary  tithe  ' — if  only  the  poor  and  aged  and 
injured  of  the  village  might  have  it.  He  seemed  to  see 
the  workhouse  as  the  labourer  does  in  the  wintry  moon 
when  first  the  rheumatism  forbids  him  to  rise — '  that 
blot  on  our  civilization — the  workhouse  ';  and  to  give 
the  children  a  midday  meal  at  the  school,  he  said,  '  would 
be  only  simple  justice  after  so  many  centuries.'  '  What 
a  triumph  for  the  Jubilee  Year,'*  he  wrote  (or,  I  should 
say,  dictated)  in  1887,  his  death-year,  at  sight  of  the  old 
notice-board  saying  : 

'  All  persons  found  wandering  abroad,  lying,  lodging, 
or  being  in  any  barn,  outhouse,  or  in  the  open  air,  and 
not  giving  a  good  account  of  themselves,  will  be  appre- 
hended as  rogues  and  vagabonds,  and  be  either  publicly 
whipt  or  sent  to  the  house  of  correction,  and  afterwards 
disposed  of  according  to  law,  by  order  of  the  magistrates. 
Any  person  who  shall  apprehend  any  rogue  or  vagabond 
will  be  entitled  to  a  reward  of  ten  shillings.' 

*  '  Country  Places,'  Field  and  Hedgerow. 

19 — 2 


292       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

The  notice  reminds  him  that  even  now  the  workhouse 
endures,  men  are  imprisoned  for  debt,  and  '  in  the  West 
End  of  London  a  poor  woman,  an  ironer,  being  in  debt, 
her  six  children's  clothes  were  seized.'  He  cries  out  upon 
'  the  enormous  weight  of  ecclesiastical  bricks  and  mortar 
that  cumbers  the  land,'  while  the  vagrom  man  with 
nothing  in  his  pocket  must  not  sleep  in  the  open.  Walk- 
ing in  the  wheatfields,  he  remembers  how  the  reapers 
reaped  when  he  was  a  boy  : 

'  Their  necks  grew  black,  much  like  black  oak  in  old 
houses.  Their  open  chests  were  always  bare,  and  flat, 
and  stark,  and  never  rising  with  rounded,  bust-like  muscle 
as  the  Greek  statues  of  athletes. 

'  The  breast-bone  was  burned  black,  and  their  arms, 
tough  as  ash,  seemed  cased  in  leather.  They  grew  visibly 
thinner  in  the  harvest-field,  and  shrunk  together — all  flesh 
disappearing,  and  nothing  but  sinew  and  muscle  remain- 
ing. Never  was  such  work.  The  wages  were  low  in 
those  days,  and  it  is  not  long  ago,  either — I  mean  the  all- 
year-round  wages.  The  reaping  was  piecework,  at  so 
much  per  acre — like  solid  gold  to  men  and  women  who 
had  lived  on  dry  bones,  as  it  were,  through  the  winter. 
So  they  worked  and  slaved,  and  tore  at  the  wheat  as  if 
they  were  seized  with  a  frenzy,  the  heat,  the  aches,  the 
illness,  the  sunstroke,  always  impending  in  the  air,  the 
stomach  hungry  again  before  the  meal  was  over.  It  was 
nothing.  No  song,  no  laugh,  no  stay — on  from  morn  till 
night,  possessed  with  a  maddened  desire  to  labour,  for 
the  more  they  could  cut  the  larger  the  sum  they  would 
receive  ;  and  what  is  man's  heart  and  brain  to  money  ? 
So  hard,  you  see,  is  the  pressure  of  human  life  that  these 
miserables  would  have  prayed  on  their  knees  for  permis- 
sion to  tear  their  arms  from  the  socket,  and  to  scorch  and 
shrivel  themselves  to  charred  human  brands  in  the  furnace 
of  the  sun. 

*  Does  it  not  seem  bitter  that  it  should  be  so  ?  Here 
was  the  wheat,  the  beauty  of  which  I  strive  in  vain  to 
tell  you,  in  the  midst  of  the  flowery  summer,  scourging 


LAST  ESSAYS  293 

them  with  the  knot  of  necessity  ;  that  which  should  give 
hfe  pulhng  the  hfe  out  of  them,  removing  their  existence 
below  that  of  the  cattle,  so  far  as  the  pleasure  of  living 
goes.  Without  doubt,  many  a  low  mound  in  the  church- 
yard— once  visible,  now  level — was  the  sooner  raised  over 
the  nameless  dead  because  of  that  terrible  strain  in  the 
few  weeks  of  the  gold  fever.  This  is  human  life,  real 
human  life — no  rest,  no  calm  enjoyment  of  the  scene,  no 
generous  gift  of  food  and  wine  lavishly  offered  by  the 
gods,  the  hard  fist  of  necessity  for  ever  battering  man  to 
a  shapeless  and  hopeless  fall.'* 

Experience  and  reading  have  not  blinded  him  to  the 
blunt  cruelty  of  life.  He  feels  it  like  the  child  whom  fire 
burns  for  the  first  time.  He  is  like  the  poet  who  in  his 
childhood  stretched  out  his  hand  to  feel  as  well  as  to  see 
the  beauty  of  water  boiling  in  a  pot,  and  was  scalded  for 
it.  He  seems  to  exclaim  directly  that  beauty  and  joy  are 
right,  and  all  else  wrong,  and  with  all  the  more  frankness 
and  terrible  simplicity  because  he  has  learned  it  for  him- 
self. Venturing  into  politics,  he  is  still  indignant  because 
the  country,  though  it  wants  to  abolish  the  vestiges  of 
feudalism  and  is  beginning  to  unite  against  tithes,  yet 
'  votes  Conservative,  and  places  a  Conservative  in  office. 
...  It  would  break  down  the  monopoly  of  the  railways, 
and  at  the  same  time  would  like  a  monopoly  of  protec- 
tion for  itself.'  Not  far  from  a  cottager  himself,  he  can 
sympathize  with  cottagers  who  put  unprofitable  senti- 
ments before  self-interest.  '  I  would  rather  my  children 
shared  my  crust,'  he  says,  '  than  fed  on  roast-beef  in  a 
stranger's  hall.'  Like  them,  he  says  he  does  not  care  for 
small  sums,  little  gains.  In  '  After  the  County  Franchise  't 
he  tries  to  look  forward  to  a  village  council  that  shall 
represent  the  people,  in  place  of  a  Board  of  Guardians 
which  is  '  land  and  money  simply.'  The  power  to  vote 
must  bring  the  labourers  some  such  council,  but  let  them 
beware  of  borrowing  ;  let  them  prefer  a  rude  discomfort. 

*  '  Walks  in  the  Wheatfields,'  Field  and  Hedgerow. 
\  Longman's  Magazine.^  1887. 


294      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

Why,  he  asks,  should  the  council  not  possess  its  own 
village  ?  Why  should  we  not  live  in  our  own  houses  ? 
He  even  asks,  Can  an  owner  of  this  kind  of  property  be 
permitted  to  refuse  to  sell  ?  Which  is  a  pertinent  but 
saucy  question  for  this  yeoman's  son  to  ask.  He  ven- 
tures to  suggest  that  ten  or  twenty  out  of  a  thousand 
acres  should  be  purchasable  by  force  '  at  a  given  and 
moderate  price,'  and  points  out,  with  naive  and  most 
troublesome  logic,  that  the  railways  have  as  great  a 
privilege.  As  things  are,  the  labourer  is  a  hand-to-mouth 
nomad  bound  for  the  workhouse — the  word  '  pauper  ' 
Jefferies  detests  so  much  that  it  is  painful  for  him  to  use 
it — '  because  the  owner  of  ten  thousand  acres  is  by  no 
means  obliged  to  part  with  a  minutest  fragment  of  it.' 
The  Poor  Laws  would,  he  thinks,  be  unnecessary  if  there 
were  a  good  system  of  insurance.  He  complains  of  the 
'glacier-like '  movements  of  Government,  of  the '  mediaeval 
law  '  which  prevents  the  use  of  steam  on  the  common 
roads.  The  Church  has  lost  all  hold  of  him,  and,  not  only 
as  an  artist,  he  dislikes  the  very  towers  and  steeples. 

'  I  wish  the  trees,  the  elms,  would  grow  tall  enough  and 
thick  enough  to  hide  the  steeples  and  towers  which  stand 
up  so  stiff  and  stark,  and  bare  and  cold,  some  of  them 
blunted  and  squab,  some  of  them  sharp  enough  to  impale, 
with  no  more  shape  than  a  walking-stick,  ferrule  upwards, 
every  one  of  them  out  of  proportion  and  jarring  to  the 
eye.  If  by  good  fortune  you  can  find  a  spot  where  you 
cannot  see  a  steeple  or  a  church-tower,  where  you  can 
see  only  fields  and  woods,  you  will  find  it  so  much  more 
beautiful,  for  Nature  has  made  it  of  its  kind  perfect. 
The  dim  sea  is  always  so  beautiful  a  view  because  it  is 
not  disfigured  by  these  buildings.  In  the  ships  men  live, 
in  the  houses  among  the  trees  they  live  ;  these  steeples 
and  towers  are  empty,  and  no  spirit  can  dwell  in  that 
which  is  out  of  proportion.  Scarcely  anyone  can  paint  a 
picture  of  the  country  without  sticking  in  one  of  these 
repellent  structures.  The  oast  houses,  whose  red  cones 
are  so  plentiful  in  Kent  and  Sussex,  have  quite  a  different 


LAST  ESSAYS  295 

effect ;  they  have  some  colour,  and  by  a  curious  fehcity 
the  builders  have  hit  upon  a  good  proportion,  so  that  the 
shape  is  pleasant.  These,  too,  have  some  use  in  the 
world.'* 

In  another  place  he  points  out  that  the  country  people 
have  chapels,  churches,  Salvation  Army  barracks,  but  no 
cottage  hospital,  no  provision  for  the  aged  or  infirm,  no 
library  or  lectures,  no  good  water  :  '  all  this  fervour  and 
building  of  temples  and  rattling  of  the  Salvation  Army 
drum  and  loud  demands  for  the  New  Jerusalem,  and  not 
a  single  effort  for  physical  well-being  or  mental  training. 'f 
To  this  dying  man  it  was  an  astonishing  sight.  At  the 
same  time,  he  was  becoming  antipathetic  to  the  cottager 
in  other  ways — in  the  matter  of  destroying  life,  for 
example.  He  points  out  the  cruelty  and  stupidity  in 
killing  birds,  especially  the  insectivorous.  The  sparrows 
are  his  friends,  and  he  has  always  let  them  build  about 
his  house  ;  and  even  for  the  purpose  of  identification,  he 
says  that  he  objects  to  trapping  insects,  because  he  dis- 
likes '  to  interfere  with  their  harmless  liberty. 'J 

In  '  The  Wiltshire  Labourer  '§  he  goes  on  with  the 
subject.  There  is,  he  finds,  '  the  same  insolvency,  the 
same  wearisome  monotony  of  existence  in  debt,  the  same 
hopeless  countenances  and  conversation,'  among  the 
farmers.  They  cannot  keep  their  sons  on  the  land.  The 
state  of  farming  drives  him  into  a  naive  wonder  that  the 
earth  should  lie  idle  for  so  many  months  in  the  year  ; 
he  calls  it  '  a  reproach  to  science.' ||  The  labourers  have 
improved  in  '  social  stature  ';  they  want  blacking  instead 
of  grease,  more  fashionable  clothes,  and  therefore  more 
money.  Ten  years  before,  Jefferies  had  praised  those 
who  built  better  cottages  and  gave  large  gardens  and  allot- 
ments to  the  labourers.     The  population  has  become  more 

*  '  Walks  in  the  Wheatfields,'  Field  and  Hedgerow. 
■)•  '  Country  Sunday,'  ibid. 
X  '  Some  April  Insects,'  ibid. 
§  Longman's  Magazine,  1887. 
II  'Idle  Earth,' /*J/V/.,  1894. 


296       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

wandering,  in  spite  of  this,  because  there  is  no  fixity  of 
tenure.  '  You  cannot  have  a  fixed  population  unless  it 
has  a  home,  and  the  labouring  population  is  practically 
homeless.  As  to  the  allotments,  cottagers  do  not  think  it 
a  favour  to  be  allowed  to  rent  land  at  three  times  what  the 
farmer  pays  for  it.'*  Why,  he  asks,  cannot  landowners 
let  cottages  direct,  and  give  the  labourers  security  so  long 
as  rent  is  paid  ?  Better  still,  let  them  give  facilities  for 
the  gradual  purchase  of  the  freehold  by  the  labourers. 
They  '  deserve  '  settled  homes.  '  Deserve  '!  The  word 
is  revolutionary,  and  that  Jefferies  should  soberly  point 
out  what  a  class  of  men  deserves,  as  if  that  were  some 
reason  for  giving  it,  marks  an  interesting  change  from  the 
year  of  his  letters  to  the  Times  ;  it  marks  the  intrusion 
of  his  ideals  into  practical  matters.  Writing  as  a  practical 
man,  he  says  that  the  labourers  deserve  settled  homes. 

The  labour  question,  he  sees,  is  everywhere.  Books 
and  papers  are  '  carefully  flavoured  to  suit  the  masses 
who  work.  ...  Is  it  religion  ?  The  pickaxe  is  already 
laid  to  the  foundation  of  the  church  tower.'  Though  the 
son  of  a  farmer  who  hated  the  ranters,  he  is  delighted 
with  the  chapel  where  the  labourer  is  not  despised. 
'  Was  it,'  he  asks,  '  merely  a  coincidence  that  the  clerical 
eye  was  opened  just  at  the  moment  when  Hodge  became 
a  voter  P'f  Money  is  more  and  more  ;  in  the  posthumous 
'  Thoughts  on  the  Labour  Question  '%  he  pictures  men 
working  hard  in  great  heat  or  amid  great  risks,  all  for 
the  golden  sovereign.  '  Throw  a  golden  sovereign  upon 
the  mahogany  table  and  listen.  The  circular  disc  of 
heavy  metal  rebounds  and  rings  clear  as  a  bell — as  a 
bell  calling  slaves  to  obey  the  best  of  its  owner.'  '  It 
is,'  he  writes,  '  a  great  game  of  roulette,  this  world  of 
ours — a  huge  gambling  establishment.  You  who  are  so 
bitter  against  Capital,  how  dearly  you  would  like  to  be 
a  Capitalist  !     Then,  for  Heaven's  sake,  let  us  all  have  a 

*  '  Idle  Earth,'  in  Longman^ s^  1894. 

f  'The  Country  Sunday,'  Field  and  Hedgerow, 

X  Pall  Mall  Gazette^  November  10,  1891. 


LAST  ESSAYS  297 

fair  chance  :  do  not  make  its  possession  dependent  upon 
morality,  virtue,  genius,  personal  stature,  nobility  of 
mind,  self-sacrifice,  or  such  rubbish.'  His  were  not  the 
times  in  which  a  poet  could  write  :  '  I  have  been  young, 
and  now  am  old  ;  yet  I  have  not  seen  the  righteous  for- 
saken, nor  his  seed  begging  bread.' 

But  there  is  a  large  and  not  always  latent  power  of 
conservatism  in  Jefferies  as  in  the  land  itself  ;  it  emerges 
now  and  then,  as  if  a  mastodon  heaved  up  the  earth  and 
thrust  its  shoulders  out  in  the  midst  of  the  street.  His 
spirit,  his  own  special  part  of  himself,  that  which  belongs 
to  the  years  since  1848,  is  capable  of  the  bravest  flights  ; 
but  there  were  many  years  before  1848,  and  they,  too,  are 
in  him,  and  he  is  of  them.  Hence  a  labourer's  sentiment 
or  a  farmer's  prejudice  easily  threatens  his  tower  of 
ivory,  '  pinnacled  dim  in  the  intense  inane  ';  hence  he 
can  never  quite  get  away  from  Coate  Farm,  its  half- 
dozen  little  fields,  and  his  good  father  making  the  bad 
best  of  it.  He  delights  in  Linnaeus'  '  Tour  in  Lapland  ' 
'  because  it  gives  a  smack  in  the  face  to  modern  pseudo- 
scientific  medical  cant  about  hygiene,  showing  how  the 
Laplanders  break  every  "  law,"  human  and  "  Divine," 
ventilation,  bath,  and  diet — all  the  trash — and  therefore 
enjoy  the  most  excellent  health,  and  live  to  a  great  old 
age.'* 

So  also  the  unscientific  and  unhistorical  man  in  him 
scorns  '  infallible  instinct  '  and  '  evolution  '  as  explana- 
tions of  birds'  nests.  '  An  examination  of  birds'  nests, 
if  conducted  free  of  prejudice,  will  convince  any  in- 
dependent person  neither  that  the  one  nor  the  other 
explains  these  common  hedge  difficulties  'f — e.g.,  the  fact 
that  nests  are  too  small  for  the  fledglings,  which  '  bubble 
over  '  the  edge.  The  county  wants  new  land  laws,  but 
votes  Conservative  ;  it  '  has  learned  to  read,  and  does  not 
buy  books. 'J     Jefferies  used  to  think  that  the  country- 

*  '  Nature  in  Books,'  Field  and  Hedgerow, 

I  'Bird's  Nests,'  ibid. 

X  '  Walks  in  the  Wheatfields,'  ibid. 


298       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

man  was  going  to  become  a  reader  ;  but  now,  he  says, 
the  books  are  by  townsmen,  the  pictures  are  derived  from 
the  stage.  Nature  herself  is  a  good  enough  book.  At 
the  end  of  an  essay  on  '  Enghsh  Cottage  Ideas  '  he  says  : 
*  The  best  of  us  are  pohshed  cottagers.'*  Of  a  chaffinch 
— '  my  chaffinch  ' — he  can  write  : 

*  The  loving  soul,  a-thrill  in  all  his  nerves, 
A  life  immortal  as  a  man's  deserves.' t 

But  let  him  return  to  sport,  and  his  '  dear  skylarks  ' 
and  happy  greenfinches  seem  to  be  quite  forgotten. 
'  Hares,'  he  writes,  '  are  almost  formed  on  purpose  to 
be  good  sport,  and  make  a  jolly  good  dish,  a  pleasant 
addition  to  the  ceaseless  round  of  mutton  and  beef  to 
which  the  dead  level  of  civilization  reduces  us.  Coursing 
is  capital,  the  harriers  first-rate. 'J  His  imagination  had 
bounds  to  it,  and  the  hare  which  he  saw  as  he  lay  alone 
on  the  Downs  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  one  that  cried 
out  before  the  hound  or  made  '  a  jolly  good  dish.'  As  he 
says  himself,  speaking  of  things  in  general,  '  character 
runs  upwards,  not  downwards.  It  is  not  the  nature  of 
the  aristocrat  that  permeates  the  cottager,  but  the  nature 
of  the  cottager  that  permeates  the  aristocrat.  .  .  .  All 
alike  try  to  go  in  the  same  old  groove,  till  disaster  visits 
their  persistence.  It  is  Enghsh  human  nature.' §  His 
inconsistencies  are  true  to  Nature  and  to  the  country 
mind.  '  Man  made  the  town,'  and  in  the  town  man 
builds  up  a  new  world  of  logic  and  ideas.  But  the 
country  meanwhile  exists  and  absorbs.  Jefferies  is 
fascinated  by  the  gypsies,  without  a  Deity,  '  under 
English  oaks  and  beeches  '  : 

'  So  old,  they  went  through  civilization  ten  thousand 
years  since  ;  they  have  worn  it  all  out,  even  hope  in  the 
future  ;  they  merely  live  acquiescent  to  fate,  like  the  red 
deer.  The  crescent  moon,  the  evening  star,  the  clatter 
of    the  fern-owl,  the  red  embers  of  the  wood  fire,  the 

♦  '  Cottage  Ideas,'  Field  mid  Hedgero^v.     f  '  My  Chaffmch,'  ibid. 
X  'Walks  in  the  VVheatfields,'  ibid.  i  'Cottage  Ideas,'  ibid. 


LAST  ESSAYS  299 

pungent  smoke  blown  round  about  by  the  occasional 
puffs  of  wind,  the  shadowy  trees,  the  sound  of  the  horses 
cropping  the  grass,  the  night  that  steals  on  till  the  stubbles 
alone  are  light  among  the  fields — the  gipsy  sleeps  in  his 
tent  on  mother  earth  ;  it  is,  you  see,  primeval  man  with 
primeval  Nature.  One  thing  he  gains,  at  least — an  iron 
health,  an  untiring  foot,  women  whose  haunches  bear 
any  burden,  children  whose  naked  feet  are  not  afraid  of 
the  dew.'* 

Few  townsmen  could  accept,  as  Jefferies  did,  the 
Downs  and  the  crowd  by  the  Mansion  House  and  the 
docks,  not  merely  as  theoretically  all  of  one  spirit,  but 
in  his  heart.  For  him,  the  steam-plough  and  the  reaping- 
machine,  as  well  as  oak  and  violet  ;  he  wants  the  light 
railway  to  call  at  the  farmyard  gate.  And  yet  he  has 
always  a  sense  of  the  contrast  between  what  belongs  to 
an  outdoor  and  what  belongs  to  an  indoor  tradition, 
rejecting  the  indoor  very  heartily  as  when  he  rejects  the 
great  book  on  colours,  because  it  deals  with  the  artificial 
and  not  with  Nature.  He  asks  if  it  would  be  possible 
'  to  build  up  a  fresh  system  of  colour  language  by  means 
of  natural  objects.'  And,  again,  '  I  found,'  he  says, 
'  from  the  dandelion  that  there  were  no  books. 'f  Unless 
the  writers  have  gone  to  Nature,  their  books  are  hihlia 
ahihlia.  He  likes  White,  because  '  he  was  not  full  of 
evolution  when  he  walked  out,  or  variation,  or  devolu- 
tion, or  degeneration.  He  did  not  look  for  microbes 
everywhere.  His  mind  was  free  and  his  eye  open. 'J 
He  has  gone  through  many  books  to  get  news  of  the 
dandelion,  but  he  sits  on  the  thrown  timber  and  wants 
the  soul  of  the  flowers.  Science  he  respects  ;  he  wants 
alchemy,  too. 

'  Let  us  not  be  too  entirely  mechanical,  Baconian,  and 
experimental  only  ;  let  us  let  the  soul  hope  and  dream 
and  float  on  these  oceans  of  accumulated  facts,  and  feel 

*  '  Just  before  Winter,'  Field  a7id  Hedgerow. 

\  '  Nature  and  Books,'  ibid. 

X  Preface  to  Natural  History  of  Selborne. 


300       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

stiU  greater  aspirations  than  it  has  ever  known  since  first 
a  flint  was  chipped  before  the  glaciers.  .  .  .'* 

So,  also,  he  wants  an  art  that  will  face  the  real  and  yet 
ideahze.  '  He  who  has  got  the  sense  of  beauty  in  his 
eye  can  find  it  in  things  as  they  really  are.'  His  is  the 
true  realism,  and  his  philosophy  of  art  is  excellent  when 
he  comments  :  '  In  these  landscape  days  we  put  our 
pictures  on  the  wall  only,  and  no  imagination  into  the 
things  we  handle  and  use.'  f 

Consciously  often,  unconsciously  sometimes,  he  is  feel- 
ing after  the  causes  of  this  harmony  between  Nature 
and  the  works  of  men.  A  statue  kno\\Ti  as  '  Venus 
Accroupie '  in  the  Louvre  brings  him  and  us  almost 
in  sight  of  them  : 

'  At  a  third  visit  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  statue  had 
gro\Mi  much  more  beautiful  in  the  few  days  which  had 
elapsed  since  I  first  saw  it.  Pondering  upon  the  causes 
of  this  increasing  interest,  I  began  to  see  that  one  reason 
was  because  it  recalled  to  my  memory  the  loveliness 
of  Nature.  Old  days  which  I  had  spent  wandering 
among  deep  meadows  and  by  green  woods  came  back  to 
me.  In  such  days  the  fancy  had  often  occurred  to  me 
that,  besides  the  loveliness  of  leaves  and  flowers,  there 
must  be  some  secret  influence  drawing  me  on  as  a 
hand  might  beckon.  The  light  and  colour  suspended  in 
the  summe'r  atmosphere,  as  colour  is  in  stained  but  trans- 
lucent glass,  were  to  me  always  on  the  point  of  becoming 
tangible  in  some  beautiful  form.  The  hovering  lines  and 
shape  never  became  sufficiently  defined  for  me  to  know 
what  form  it  could  be,  yet  the  colours  and  the  light 
meant  something  which  I  was  not  able  to  fix.  .  .  ,  Here 
there  came  back  to  me  this  old  thought  born  in  the 
midst  of  flowers  and  wind-rustled  leaves,  and  I  saw  that 
with  it  the  statue  before  me  was  in  accord.  The  living 
original  of  this  work  was  the  human  impersonation  of 
the  secret  influence  which  had  beckoned  me  on  in  the 

*  Preface  to  Natural  History  ofSelborne. 
I  'Field  Sports  in  Art,'  Field  and  Hedgerow. 


LAST  ESSAYS  301 

forest  and  by  running  streams.  She  expressed  in  loveli- 
ness of  form  the  colour  and  light  of  sunny  days  ;  she 
expressed  the  deep  aspiring  desire  of  the  soul  for  the 
perfection  of  the  frame  in  which  it  is  encased,  for  the 
perfection  of  its  own  existence.  .  .  .  Though  I  cannot 
name  the  ideal  good,  it  seems  to  me  that  it  will  be  in 
some  way  closely  associated  with  the  ideal  beauty  of 
Nature.'* 

It  is,  in  fact,  beauty  that  he  so  hardily  loves — beauty 
somehow  associated  in  his  mind  with  physical  strength, 
with  sincerity  and  truth.  Impermanent  as  mist  breathed 
on  the  mirror  of  eternity,  he  perceives  that  the  steam- 
plough,  like  the  old  Sussex  plough,  the  new  Australian 
clipper,  and  the  crank  caravels  of  old  time,  are  good 
and  divine  because  they  are  fearless  expressions  of  the 
one  energy  that  propagates  and  slays.  '  The  earth  is 
right  and  the  tree  is  right,'  he  says  ;  '  trim  either,  and 
all  is  wrong.'  Of  poppies  he  says  :  '  There  is  genius  in 
them,  the  genius  of  colour,  and  they  are  saved  ';  of  the 
sweetness  of  the  bird's  song  in  an  early  morning  of 
spring  :  '  Genius  is  nature,  and  his  lay,  like  the  sap  in 
the  bough  from  which  he  sings,  rises  without  thought.' 

These  last  words  are  from  one  of  the  finest  of  his  essays 
in  the  personal  and  poetic  class.  It  was  written  during 
illness  and  exile  from  the  fields,  when  he  saw  the  lark 
through  the  window-pane.  It  was,  it  is  said,  the  last 
essay  written  with  his  own  hand,  some  time  in  the  spring 
of  1886.  He  thought  of  the  bloom  of  the  gorse  outside, 
'  shut  like  a  book,'  but  soon  to  open  ;  of  the  sunlight 
and  wind  at  their  work.  '  I  wonder  to  myself,'  he  says, 
'  how  they  can  all  get  on  without  me — how  they  manage, 
bird  and  flower,  without  me  to  keep  the  calendar  for 
them.' 

'  All  the  grasses,'  he  continues — '  all  the  grasses  of  the 
meadow  were  my  pets  :  I  loved  them  all  ;  and  perhaps 
that  was  why  I  never  had  a  "  pet,"  never  cultivated  a 
flower,  never  kept  a  caged  bird,  or  any  creature.     Why 

*  '  Nature  in  the  Louvwe,'  Field  and  Hedgerow. 


302       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

keep  pets  when  every  wild  free  hawk  that  passed  over 
head  in  the  air  was  mine  ?  I  joyed  in  his  swift,  careless 
flight,  in  the  throw  of  his  pinions,  in  his  rush  over  the 
elms  and  miles  of  woodland  ;  it  was  happiness  to  see  his 
unchecked  life.  What  more  beautiful  than  the  sweep 
and  curve  of  his  going  through  the  azure  sky  ?  These 
were  my  pets,  and  all  the  grass.  Under  the  wind  it 
seemed  to  dry  and  become  grey,  and  the  starlings  running 
to  and  fro  on  the  surface  that  did  not  sink  now  stood  high 
above  it  and  were  larger.  The  dust  that  drifted  along 
blessed  it,  and  it  grew.  Day  by  day  a  change  ;  always 
a  note  to  make.  The  moss  drying  on  the  tree-trunks, 
dog's-mercury  stirring  under  the  ash-poles,  bird's-claw 
buds  of  beech  lengthening  :  books  upon  books  to  be 
filled  with  these  things.  I  cannot  think  how  they  manage 
without  me. 

'  To-day  through  the  window-pane  I  see  a  lark  high 
up  against  the  grey  cloud,  and  hear  his  song.  I  cannot 
walk  about  and  arrange  with  the  birds  and  gorse-bloom  ; 
how  does  he  know  it  is  the  time  for  him  to  sing  ?  With- 
out my  book  and  pencil  and  observing  eye,  how  does  he 
understand  that  the  hour  has  come  ?  To  sing  high  in 
the  air,  to  chase  his  mate  over  the  low  stone  wall  of  the 
ploughed  field,  to  battle  with  his  high-crested  rival,  to 
balance  himself  on  his  trembling  wings,  outspread  a  few 
yards  above  the  earth,  and  utter  that  sweet  little  loving 
kiss,  as  it  were,  of  song — oh,  happy,  happy  days  !  So 
beautiful  to  watch,  as  if  he  were  my  own,  and  I  felt  it 
all !  It  is  years  since  I  went  out  amongst  them  in  the 
old  fields,  and  saw  them  in  the  green  corn  ;  they  must  be 
dead,  dear  little  things,  by  now.  Without  me  to  tell 
him,  how  does  this  lark  to-day  that  I  hear  through  the 
window  know  it  is  his  hour  ?'* 

What  utterly  abandoned  sincerity  is  here  !  Writing 
seldom  comes  so  near  to  a  sob  without  causing  disgust. 
Seldom,  save  in  Shelley,  is  the  veil  between  the  poet  and 
the  reader  living  after  him  so  transparent.     It  is  the 

*  '  I^Iours  of  Spring,'  Field  ami  Hedgerow, 


LAST  ESSAYS  303 

writing  of  one  in  whose  veins  the  sea  floweth,  who  is 
clothed  with  the  heavens,  crowned  with  the  stars,  as 
Traherne  says — one  who  so  loves  and  enjoys  the  world 
that  he  is  '  covetous  and  earnest  to  persuade  others  to 
enjoy  it.'  Thinking  of  all  these  things,  Jeffcries  remem- 
bers his  error  to  believe  that  because  he  loved  the  earth, 
the  earth  loved  him.  He  recalls  how  he  once  walked 
'  gaily  '  up  to  Beachy  Head,  joying  in  sun  and  wind,  and 
crunching  the  shells  of  long-dead  things  for  which  Nature 
cares  as  much  as  for  him.  That  sends  him  to  the  thought 
of  '  The  Story  of  My  Heart  ':  '  We  must  look  to  ourselves 
to  help  ourselves.  We  must  think  ourselves  into  an 
earthly  immortality  ';*  for  so  he  calls  a  divine  fulness 
of  life.  And  the  little  pebble  in  the  grass  teaches  him 
that  he  is  a  soul,  '  because  he  is  not  that  that  touches 
the  nerves  of  his  hand  ';  the  chief  use  of  matter  is  '  to 
demonstrate  to  us  the  existence  of  the  soul.'  He  returns 
to  the  beauty  of  the  earth,  of  the  forest-clad  hills  about 
Crowborough,  even  in  winter,  when  the  sky  was  '  black 
and  faintly  yellow  —  brutal  colours  of  despotism — 
heaven  striking  with  clenched  fist.'  Earth  is  always 
beautiful,  and  '  the  heart,  from  the  moment  of  its  first 
beat,  instinctively  longs  for  the  beautiful.'  But  it  is 
frost-bound,  and  a  labouring  man  who  would  not  go  to 
the  workhouse  asks  to  be  allowed  to  dig  in  the  garden  : 

*  Nature,  earth,  and  the  gods  did  not  help  him  ;  sun 
and  stars,  where  were  they  ?  He  knocked  at  the  door 
of  the  farms  and  found  good  in  man  only — not  in  Law 
or  Order,  but  in  individual  man  alone. 'f 

The  snow  and  wind  will  not  spare  the  gypsy  woman 
lying  with  her  babes.  '  Nothing  good  to  man  but  man. 
Let  man,  then,  leave  his  gods  and  lift  up  his  ideal  beyond 
them.'  The  birds  also  starve — only  one  thrush  is  left. 
And  yet  '  the  buzzing  crowds  of  summer  were  still  under 
the  snow.'  Then  the  long  frost  breaks  ;  the  wind  is  in 
the  south,  and  the  gorse  in  flower.  But  an  old  man  goes 
past  in  a  waggon  on  the  bed  in  which  he  had  slept  seventy- 

*  *  Hours  o{  Spring,' jFie/ii  ami  Hedgerow.  t  /<^«V/. 

/ 


304       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

three  years.  '  It  is  not  the  tyranny  of  anyone  that  has 
done  it ;  it  is  the  tyranny  of  circumstance,  the  lot  of  man.' 
But  the  sycamore  bud  opens  ;  there  are  lambs,  there  are 
butterflies  ;  the  plough  can  break  the  clod.  And  yet 
there  is  no  order,  he  says,  as  of  a  drill ;  the  wild  flowers 
are  not  found  by  a  foot-measure. 

*  Nature  has  no  arrangement,  no  plan,  nothing  judicious 
even.  The  walnut-trees  bring  forth  their  tender  buds, 
and  the  frost  turns  them — they  have  no  mosaic  of  time 
to  fit  in,  like  a  Roman  tessellated  pavement.  Nature  is 
like  a  child,  who  will  sing  and  shout,  though  you  may  be 
never  so  deeply  pondering  in  the  study,  and  does  not 
wait  for  the  hour  that  suits  your  mind.  You  do  not 
know  what  you  may  find  each  day.  Perhaps  you  may 
only  pick  up  a  fallen  feather,  but  it  is  beautiful,  every 
filament.  Always  beautiful !  everything  beautiful !  And 
are  these  things  new — the  ploughman  and  his  team,  the 
lark's  song,  the  green  leaf  ?  Can  they  be  new  ?  Surely 
they  have  been  of  old  time  !  They  are,  indeed,  new — 
the  only  things  that  are  so  ;  the  rest  is  old  and  grey,  and 
a  weariness.'* 

So  it  ends.  How  true,  how  false,  how  unreasonable,  it 
all  is  !  Why  is  he  not  working  in  the  slums  to  improve 
the  lot  of  men  whom  the  gods  will  not  help  ?  He  does 
but  add  to  the  difficulty  and  absurdity  of  life,  to  lie  there 
ill  and  poor  in  the  monotonous  frost,  looking  out  of  the 
window,  all  manner  of  memories,  hopes,  joys,  sorrows 
coming  to  his  heart  as  doves  to  the  dovecot.  And  yet  does 
he  not  in  the  end  extract  more  joy  than  sorrow  from  it 
all  ?  Is  it  not  a  triumph  of  beauty  and  life  ?  It  makes 
for  goodness,  joy,  and  beauty  in  its  proclamation  that  life 
can  endure  most  dog-like  things  and  yet  flourish  exceed- 
ingly. Always  these  two  truths — the  exuberance  of 
Nature  and  the  divinity  of  man.  Even  if  it  were  all  a 
nightmare,  the  very  truthfulness  of  the  agitated  voice, 
rising  and  falling  in  honest  contemplation  of  common 
sorrows,  would  preserve  it,  since  it  is  rarely  given  to  the 
•  '  Hours  of  Spring,'  Field  and  Hedgerow. 


1 


LAST  ESSAYS  305 

best  of  men  to  speak  the  truth.  Its  shape  is  the  shape 
of  an  emotional  mood,  and  it  ends  because  the  emotion 
ends.  It  is  music,  and  above,  or  independent  of,  logic. 
It  obeys  some  deeper  law  than  that  which  any  model 
could  teach.  It  really  has  the  effect  of  music,  with  its 
succession  of  thoughts  and  images  wrought  into  as  real  a 
unity  as  there  is  in  '  Phaselus  ille '  or  the  *  Ode  to  a 
Nightingale.'  Some  would  say  the  effect  is  that  of 
religious  music,  but  it  rebels  against  all  the  gods,  against 
all  things  except  life. 

In  '  The  July  Grass  '  another  of  his  old  thoughts  has 
returned.  At  the  sight  of  a  scarlet-spotted  fly  enjoying 
the  sun — '  if  the  sunshine  were  a  hundred  hours  long,  still 
it  would  not  be  long  enough  ' — he  resolves  that  he  will 
not  think  ;  he  will  be  unconscious,  he  will  live.  He  has 
there  met,  perhaps,  the  most  tragic  condition  of  man's 
greatness — his  self-consciousness.  If  the  sea-waves  were 
to  be  self-conscious,  they  would  cease  to  wash  the  shore  ; 
a  self-conscious  world  would  fester  and  stink  in  a  month. 
Many  men  survive  the  terror.  Jefferies  survived  it,  and 
desired  to  be  like  the  scarlet-spotted  fly.  Has  the  Nature 
of  which  he  spoke  ambiguous,  terrible  things  in  '  The 
Story  of  My  Heart '  taken  a  sharp  revenge  ?  or  is  she 
only  showing  the  maternal  extremity  of  her  love,  that 
she  makes  him  say,  '  All  things  that  are  beautiful  are 
found  by  chance,  like  everything  that  is  good  '?  It  is 
the  same  cry  as  the  poet's  '  Let  us  keep  our  lives  simple 
and  passionate.'  In  one  place,  having  defended  the  in- 
telligence of  ants,  hinting  at  '  some  consideration  of 
which  we  are  ignorant,  but  which  weighs  with  ants,'  he 
says  :  *  I  do  not  know  that  I  am  myself  more  rational.'* 
But  he  is  not  content  to  gaze  at  the  scarlet  and  gold  and 
crimson  and  green  of  July,  to  see,  to  drink  it,  but  desires 
'  in  some  way  to  make  it  part  of  me,  that  I  might  live  it.' 
Oh,  the  unprofitable  sweetness  of  life,  sweetest  when  it 
passes  briefly  and  unconsciously  like  a  poppy's  blossom- 
ing !     Jefferies  will  not  be  content  until  he  has  seen  it  all. 

*  'Among  the  Nuts,'  Field  and  Hedgerow. 

I  20 


3o6       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

It  is  wonderful  that  he  does  not  meet  such  a  fate  as  that 
of  Faustus,  with  such  senses  as  he  had,  feeUng  '  a  sense 
of  blue  as  he  faces  the  strong  breeze  ,  .  .  wind-blue,  not 
the  night-blue  or  heaven-blue,  a  colour  of  air.'*  Sitting 
among  the  hops  in  the  oast-chamber  until  his  mind  '  was 
full  of  fancy,  imagination,  flowing  with  ideas,'  a  '  sense 
of  lightness  and  joyousness  '  hfted  him  up  ;  he  '  wanted 
music,  and  felt  full  of  laughter. 'f  He  seems  to  see  every- 
thing, and  to  endeavour  to  record  everything  clearly,  even 
when  it  is  of  little  artistic  or  scientific  value.  Thus,  he 
notes  that  the  colour  of  the  old  oak-leaves  '  is  too  brown 
for  buff ;  it  is  more  like  fresh  harness.'  He  notes,  among 
the  wind's  labours,  the  ruffling  of  the  mole's  velvet  back. 
Wonderful  it  is  that  he  should  write  at  all,  after  this 
restless  roving  with  the  winds  and  diving  in  the  waters, 
this  care  for  all  the  business  of  the  earth  as  if  truly  it 
could  not  go  on  without  him,  as  if  he  had 

'  The  cloudy  winds  to  keep 
Fresh  for  the  opening  of  the  morning's  eye.* 

f'  That  he  is  an  artist  so  often  is  hardly  less  surprising 
than  it  would  be  had  James  Luckett  Jefferies  been  one, 
or  Uncle  Jonathan  at  the  Idovers.  In  '  An  English  Deer- 
Park,'J  and  such  papers,  he  sometimes  appears  to  be 
expressing  a  view  like  theirs — the  view  of  a  man  who 
has  a  plenty  of  country  lore  in  his  heart,  so  that  calm  and 
beautiful  old  things  flow  naturally  from  his  pen.  Some 
of  this  has  only  reached  the  form  of  gossip,  as  in  '  The 
Countryside  :  Sussex,'  '  Country  Places,'  '  Buckhurst 
Park,'§  '  Summer  in  Somerset,'  but  incomparable  gossip, 
often  to  be  valued  as  a  vivid  record  of  a  certain  time  and 
place,  and  having  a  great  charm  for  the  townsman  and 
the  sportsman.  By  this  abundance  and  confusion  as  of 
Nature  he  shows  his  birth  out  of  the  soil,  with  which, 
indeed,  he  seems  still  to  maintain  an  irrefragable  connec- 
tion.    But  what  gives  life  and  significance  to  them,  and 

*  'Winds  of  Heaven,'  Field  and  Hedgerow. 
t  'The  Countryside  :  Sussex,'  ibid. 
%  Ibid.  §  Ibid. 


Facsimile  of  a  letter  from  Richard  Jefferies,  Dec.  3,  1886.  ^  ^^ 


LAST  ESSAYS  307 

makes  them  more  than  extracts  from  Nature,  is  the 
quickening  imagination.  He  has  built  images  of  certain 
things  in  his  brain  with  such  clearness  and  of  such  close 
relationship  to  his  own  life  and  thought  that  they  make 
a  new  world,  where,  without  imagination,  we  should  have 
missed  a  thousand  things  that  Nature  has.  '  At  every 
hour  of  the  day,'  he  says,*  '  I  am  accustomed  to  call  up 
figures  at  will  before  my  eyes,  which  stand  out  well 
defined  and  coloured  to  the  very  hue  of  their  faces.' 
Without  this  imagination  there  is  no  life.  Imagination 
is  not  an  artistic  quality,  but  a  quality  pertaining  to 
intensity  of  life,  to  reality,  and  it  is  possessed  by  the 
ploughman,  sailor,  or  mechanic  as  commonly  as  by  the 
artist,  and  by  it  they  live,  or,  more  accurately,  by  their 
possession  they  prove  that  they  live,  and  do  not  endure 
the  life  in  death  of  the  unimaginative.  The  intellect  and 
the  perpetually  decaying  frame  speak  aloud  in  tones 
which  mean  that  death  comes  soon  and  death  ends  all ; 
that  when  the  breath  is  out  of  our  bodies  all  is  over,  and 
the  visible  world  of  men  and  women  and  Nature  and  art 
is  no  more  to  us  than,  in  a  few  days,  we  are  to  them.  But 
imagination  stops  our  ears  against  the  song  of  the  cold 
sirens  on  the  rocks,  and  helps  us  to  go  on  living  as  if  for 
ever,  to  do  and  to  be  the  greatest  and  most  god-like 
things,  making  nothing  of  time  or  death.  Thus,  the  con- 
trast is  not  between  imagination  and  reality,  but  between 
imagination  and  death  ;  it  is  better  to  say  between  love 
and  death,  for  imagination  is  the  most  sacred  child  of  love. 
Jefferies  himself  says  of  beauty  which  only  the  imagina- 
tion can  hold  that  it  is  *  an  expression  of  hope  ;  .  .  .  while 
the  heart  is  absorbed  in  its  contemplation,  unconscious 
but  powerful  hope  is  filling  the  breast. 'f 

'  My  Old  Village,'^  one  of  the  last,  if  not  the  last,  of  his 
essays,  is  perhaps  the  finest  of  all  in  its  naturalism,  its 
pathos,  its  beauty,  its  perfection  of  form,  as  of  a  copse  or 
a  worn  tree  which  we  recognize  as  perfect  because  it  has 

*  'Field  Sports  in  Art,'  Field atid Hedgerow. 
f  '  Nature  in  the  Louvre,'  ibid.  %  Ibid. 

I  20—2 


308       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

grown  to  the  sound  of  music.  '  John  Bro^vn  is  dead,'  it 
begins,  and  Richard  Jefferies'  father  wrote  in  a  copy  of 
the  magazine  where  it  first  appeared  :  '  He  was  my  milker 
and  workman  for  eighteen  or  twenty  years,  and  was  the 
first  man  my  son  could  remember.  His  father  was  Job 
Brown.'  Jefferies  goes  on  to  recall  the  cottage  where 
Brown  lived,  and  the  raised  piece  of  wood  across  the  door- 
way over  which  he  slipped  on  coming  home  in  the  even- 
ing, and  fell  forward  dead  on  the  brick  floor — '  hard  to 
fall  on  and  die.'  There,  by  the  strong  labourer's  cottage, 
the  first  violets  came.  He  remembers  John  Brown's 
strength,  his  mighty  mowing.  '  If  a  man's  work  that  he 
has  done  all  the  days  of  his  life  could  be  collected  and 
piled  up  around  him  in  visible  shape,  what  a  vast  mound 
there  would  be  beside  some  !  If  each  act  or  stroke  was 
represented,  say,  by  a  brick,  John  BrovMi  would  have 
stood  the  day  before  his  ending  by  the  side  of  a  monu- 
ment as  high  as  a  pyramid.  Then  if  in  front  of  him  could 
be  placed  the  sum  and  product  of  his  labour,  the  profit  to 
himself,  he  could  have  held  it  in  his  clenched  hand  like  a 
nut,  and  no  one  would  have  seen  it.'*  He  remembers,  too, 
this  man's  going  off  to  Swindon  with  a  wallet  for  the  bread, 
his  tipsy  gravity  as  he  carried  a  yoke  of  milk,  bathing 
himself  at  length  in  it  as  he  fell.  They  had  small-pox  in 
the  cottage  near.  '  That  terrible  disease  seemed  to  quite 
spoil  the  violet  bank  opposite,  and  I  never  picked  one 
there  afterwards.'  Nearly  twenty  years  before  Jefferies 
had  wanted  to  leave  Coate  because  it  was  '  tainted  '  by  his 
own  illness.  It  was  John  Brown's  tall  chimney  that  he 
saw — and  we  can  still  see — coming  home  at  all  hours,  a 
comfortable  sight  when  he  still  believed  in  ghosts.  '  The 
ghosts  die  as  we  grow  older  ;  they  die,  and  their  places 
are  taken  by  real  ghosts.'  The  next  cottage  (going 
towards  Coate  Farm)  was  Job  Brown's,  and  he  remembers 
the  little  shopkeeper  who  '  had  a  way  of  shaking  hands 
with  you  with  his  right  hand,  while  his  left  hand  was 
casually  doing  something  else  in  a  detached  sort  of  way.' 
*  '  My  Old  Village,'  Field  and  Hedgerow. 


LAST  ESSAYS  309 

He  caught  rats  and  rabbits  and  moles  ;  he  sold  '  such 
immense  dark-brown  jumbles,  such  cheek-distenders  .  .  . 
I  really  think  I  could  eat  one  now.'  But  Job  is  long 
dead.  Next  came  the  water-bailiff's  cottage,  with  the 
oars  leaning  against  it,  and  the  punt  with  a  list,  the  big 
gun,  the  shrewish  wife — dead  now.  Then  the  thatched 
village,  hiding  irregularly  up  lanes  and  among  elms.  But 
not  one  of  the  farmers  is  left,  not  even  the  strong  young 
man,  '  the  hardy,  dark  young  man,  built  of  iron,  broad, 
thick,  and  short,  who  looked  as  if  frost,  snow,  and  heat 
were  all  the  same  to  him.'  In  his  prime  a  sunstroke  sent 
him  to  bed,  and  in  twelve  months  he  was  buried.  '  Of 
them  all,'  of  all  the  people  Jefferies  knew  or  used  to  see, 
'  I  verily  believe  there  was  but  one  soul  living  in  the  same 
old  house.'     The  trees,  too — 

'  I  think  I  have  heard  that  the  oaks  are  down.  They 
may  be  standing  or  down ;  it  matters  nothing  to  me. 
The  leaves  I  last  saw  upon  them  are  gone  for  evermore, 
nor  shall  I  ever  see  them  come  there  again  ruddy  in 
spring.  I  would  not  see  them  again  even  if  I  could  ; 
they  could  never  look  again  as  they  used  to  do.  There 
are  too  many  memories  there.  The  happiest  days  become 
the  saddest  afterwards.  Let  us  never  go  back,  lest  we, 
too,  die.  There  are  no  such  oaks  anywhere  else — none 
so  tall  and  straight,  and  with  such  massive  heads,  on 
which  the  sun  used  to  shine  as  if  on  the  globe  of  the 
earth,  one  side  in  shadow,  the  other  in  bright  light. 
How  often  I  have  looked  at  oaks  since,  and  yet  have 
never  been  able  to  get  the  same  effect  from  them  !  Like 
an  old  author  printed  in  another  type,  the  words  are  the 
same,  but  the  sentiment  is  different.  The  brooks  have 
ceased  to  run.  There  is  no  music  now  at  the  old  hatch 
where  we  used  to  sit  in  danger  of  our  lives,  happy  as 
kings,  on  the  narrow  bar  over  the  deep  water.  The 
barred  pike  that  used  to  come  up  in  such  numbers  are 
no  more  among  the  flags.  The  perch  used  to  drift  down 
the  stream,  and  then  bring  up  again.  The  sun  shone 
there  for  a  very  long  time,  and  the  water  rippled  and 

/ 


310       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

sang,  and  it  always  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  feel  the 
ripphng  and  the  singing  and  the  sparkling  back  through 
the  centuries.  The  brook  is  dead,  for  when  man  goes 
Nature  ends.  I  dare  say  there  is  water  there  still,  but  it 
is  not  the  brook  ;  the  brook  is  gone,  like  John  Brown's 
soul.  There  used  to  be  clouds  over  the  fields — white 
clouds  in  blue  summer  skies.  I  have  lived  a  good  deal 
on  clouds.  They  have  been  meat  to  me  often  ;  they 
bring  something  to  the  spirit  which  even  trees  do  not. 
I  see  clouds  now  sometimes  when  the  iron  grip  of  hell 
permits  for  a  minute  or  two  ;  they  are  very  different 
clouds,  and  speak  differently.  I  long  for  some  of  the 
old  clouds  that  had  no  memories.  There  were  nights  in 
those  times  over  those  fields — not  darkness,  but  night — 
full  of  glowing  suns  and  glowing  richness  of  life  that 
sprang  up  to  meet  them.  The  nights  are  there  still — 
they  are  everywhere  ;  nothing  local  in  the  night — but  it 
is  not  the  night  to  me  seen  through  the  window. 

'  There  used  to  be  footpaths.  .  .  .'* 

There  was  the  footpath  where,  '  a  hundred  years  ago, 
a  little  old  man  with  silver  buckles  on  his  shoes  '  used  to 
walk  once  a  week  to  drink  milk  with  his  children  at  the 
farm — Coate  Farm,  for  Richard  Jefferies'  father  has  put 
a  note  alongside  this  passage,  saying  '  My  father  ' — and 
the  path  to  the  railway  where  Richard,  as  a  boy,  used  to 
go  to  see  the  broad-gauge  engines  sweep  by. 

'  I  wish  I  could  feel  like  that  now.  The  feeling  is  not 
quite  gone,  even  now,  and  I  have  often  since  seen  those 
great  broad-gauge  creatures  moving  alive  to  and  fro  like 
Ezekiel's  wheel-dream  beside  the  platforms  of  Babylon 
with  much  of  the  same  old  delight.  Still,  I  never  went 
back  with  them  to  the  faded  footpath.  They  are  all 
faded  now,  these  footpaths. 'f 

The  walnut-trees  at  home  are  dead,  where  he  used  to 
sit  with  a  '  great  volume  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,'  and  balance 
the  luxuries  of  reading  and  eating  nuts  ;  where  he  read 
of  the  lost  caravan  that  found  princely  hospitality  at  an 

*  •  My  Old  Village,'  Field  and  Hedf^erow.  t  Ibid. 


LAST  ESSAYS  311 

unexpected  oasis,  and  came  away  with  pearls  and  rubies, 
only  to  find  they  had  been  away,  not  a  month  or  two,  but 
twenty  years,  and  as  they  grew  old  one  by  one  they  set 
out  to  find  the  city  of  the  oasis,  but  left  their  bones  among 
the  palms  and  water  of  the  mirage. 

The  ash-copses  are  cut,  where  he  used  to  go  with  the 
little  copy  of  Shakespeare's  poems  and  sonnets,  never 
reading  it  out  of  doors,  yet  carrying  it  about  until  it  was 
worn. 

'  Was  everyone,  then,  so  pleasant  to  me  in  those  days  ?' 
So  he  suddenly  interrupts  his  memories.  There  was  not 
one  friendly  ;  they  were  indifferent  to  him,  he  to  them. 
He  will  not  remember  the  noisy  scapegrace,  nor  his  cousin 
Jimmy  Cox,  nor  his  brother  Harry,  not  Alere,  nor  Amadis, 
nor  Molly,  the  milkmaid. 

'  I  planted  myself  everywhere  under  the  trees  in  the 
fields  and  footpaths  by  day  and  by  night,  and  that  is  why 
I  have  never  put  myself  into  the  charge  of  the  many- 
wheeled  creatures  that  move  on  the  rails  and  gone  back 
thither,  lest  I  might  find  the  trees  look  small,  and  the 
elms  mere  switches,  and  the  fields  shrunken,  and  the 
brooks  dry,  and  no  voice  anywhere.  Nothing  but  my 
own  ghost  to  meet  me  by  every  hedge.  I  fear  lest  I 
should  find  myself  more  dead  than  all  the  rest,  and  verily 
I  wish,  could  it  be  without  injury  to  others,  that  the  sand 
of  the  desert  would  rise  and  roll  over  and  obliterate  the 
place  for  ever  and  ever.'* 

But,  he  says,  he  need  not  wish  this  ;  and  then  with 
unlucky  mock  gravity,  which  could  only  have  succeeded 
had  it  been  irony,  he  goes  on  to  point  out  with  firstly, 
secondly,  and  seventhly,  that  beyond  his  own  there  is  no 
evidence  to  support  what  he  has  said  about  the  sparkle 
of  the  brook  and  the  old  man  with  the  silver  buckles  and 
the  footpaths  .  .  .  '  so  that  perhaps,  after  all,  I  was  mis- 
taken, and  there  never  was  any  such  place  or  any  such 
meadows,  and  I  was  never  there.  And  perhaps,  in 
course  of  time,  I  shall  find  out  also,  when  I  pass  away 
*  '  My  Old  Village,'  Field  and  Hedgerow. 


312       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

physically,  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  there  never  was  any 
earth.' 

It  is  most  mournful  music,  but  it  is  music.  At  first 
sight  it  is  one  of  the  most  numbing  and  desperate  things 
outside  of  our  own  lives.  With  its  interruptions,  its 
moodiness,  it  is  an  exquisite  portrait  of  an  hour  in  the 
life  of  a  sensitive  egoist,  with  disease  and  poverty  against 
him,  looking  backward,  as  Lamb  and  Hood  looked  back- 
ward. Were  it  nothing  more,  it  might  seem  to  be  one 
of  those  pieces  that  check  the  heart  and  make  against 
life.  But  it  is  more  ;  it  is  not  merely  a  swaying  wreck 
that  drifts  to  the  whirlpool  and  death  of  its  desire. 
Languor,  acquiescence,  retrospection  can  effect  nothing, 
even  if  sometimes  they  guide  a  pen.  Behind  this  gloom 
there  is  intense  vitality,  a  stirring  and  a  promise  of  the 
lightning  which,  purging  the  gloom,  brings  the  rain  and 
the  sunlight  of  beauty  and  joy  again.  The  piece  has  that 
intensity  which  makes  pure  sorrow  the  equal  of  pure  joy, 
so  keen  is  it,  so  expressive  of  the  whole  character,  so  rich  in 
apprehensions  of  Nature  and  men.  Jefferies'  style  here 
attains  its  greatest  simplicity,  the  highest  expressiveness 
of  the  period  which  followed  '  The  Story  of  My  Heart ' 
and  produced  '  Amaryllis.'  He  was  dictating,  not  writing. 
There  is  no  long-sought  mot  propre  intruding  upon  the 
sentences  that  are  like  speech  and,  as  is  not  rare  in 
Jefferies,  are  unafraid  of  slang.  There  is  nothing  ornate, 
nothing  luxurious  ;  his  eye  is  quiet.  Like  '  Winds  of 
Heaven,'  '  Hours  of  Spring,'  and  others,  it  has  the  effect 
of  music,  in  spite  of  its  lack  of  melody  or  pattern.  It  is  a 
lonely  human  voice  speaking  clearly  as  the  heart  moves 
it  on  the  plainest  matters.  Again  and  again  it  touches 
the  source  of  tears,  then  suddenly  ceases.  That  they  are 
the  tears  of  a  dying  man  is  an  accident,  and  is  not  neces- 
sary to  the  effect  of  the  whole.  They  are  also  the  tears 
of  one  who  is  still  young.  In  some  ways  the  style,  un- 
affected, sufficient,  without  peculiarities,  within  reach  of 
the  commonplace,  recalls  that  of  '  The  Amateur  Poacher.' 
But  in  these  ten  years  of  passionate  thought  and  observa- 


1 


LAST  ESSAYS  313 

tion,  of  much  life  and  much  writing,  he  has  found  himself  ; 
and  now  it  is  no  longer  the  sportsman,  or  the  naturalist, 
or  the  agriculturist,  or  the  colourist,  or  the  mystic,  that 
speaks,  but  a  man  who  has  played  these  parts  and  been 
worn  and  shaped  by  them,  by  work  and  pain.  Whether 
this  was  but  a  stage  towards  an  end  never  to  be  at- 
tained— 

'  Cut  is  the  branch  that  might  have  grown  full  straight, 
And  burned  is  Apollo's  laurel  bough  ' — 

or  only  the  last  stage  before  death,  it  is  impossible  to 
say.  But  it  is  certain  that  these  last  years,  these  last 
months,  brought  gifts  that  had  not  been  received  when 
'  The  Amateur  Poacher,'  when  '  The  Story  of  My  Heart  ' 
and  '  The  Dewy  Morn  '  were  written.  The  observation 
was  as  line  as  ever,  and  the  humanity  was  deeper  and 
more  varied,  and  his  maturing  interest  in  men  made 
him  regret  that  White  '  did  not  leave  a  natural  history 
of  the  people  of  his  day.'*  When  he  undertook  the 
preface  to  the  '  Natural  History  of  Selborne '  in 
February,  1887,  he  was  '  a  perfect  invalid.'  Sending 
it  to  Mr.  Ernest  Rhys,  in  June,  he  wished  that  he  had 
had  time  for  a  longer  essay.  William  Sharp  had  sent 
him  a  copy  of  Whitman's  '  Specimen  Days  '  as  a  token 
of  esteem  ;  and  Jefferies  was  still  enough  alive  to  ask, 
'  Why  doesn't  Mr.  Sharp  send  me  his  "  Leaves  of  Grass," 
as  a  companion  to  "  Specimen  Days  "  ?'  But  his  work 
was  done.  He  had  few  more  months  to  live,  and  he 
spent  them  in  weakness  and  pain,  though  not  without 
intervals  of  pleasure  ;  for  Mr.  J.  W.  Northf  tells  how,  at 
this  time,  when  he  was  at  Goring  on  a  visit,  Jefferies 
arranged  for  him  and  Mrs.  Jefferies  a  trip  to  Arundel, 
partly  that  he  might,  '  unrebuked,  spend  some  of  his 
latest  hard  earnings  in  a  pint  of  "  Terrier  Jouet  "  for  my 
supper,'  and  on  their  return  he  was  standing  against 
the  doorpost   to  welcome   them.     During   these   months 

*  Preface  to  White's  Selborne. 

t  Pall  Mall  Gazette^  August  16,  1887. 


314       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

'  the  Bible  was  his  constant  companion.'*  Three  weeks 
before  his  death  Mrs.  Jefferies  was  reading  to  him  from 
St.  Luke  (vi.  20),  and  Jefferies  said  :  '  Those  are  the 
words  of  Jesus  ;  they  are  true,  and  all  philosophy  is 
hollow. 't  At  another  time  he  said  :  '  I  have  done  wrong 
and  thought  wrong  ;  it  was  my  intellectual  vanity. 'J 
Later  still,  apparently,  Mrs.  Jefferies  told  Mr.  J.\V.North§ 
that  their  time  had  long  been  spent  in  prayer  together 
and  in  reading  St.  Luke.  '  Almost  his  last  intelligible 
words  were  :  "  Yes,  yes  ;  that  is  so.  Help,  Lord,  for 
Jesus'  sake.  Darling,  good-bye.  God  bless  you  and 
the  children,  and  save  you  all  from  such  great  pain."  ' 

Lying  sleepless  in  the  night,  according  to  Besant,  || 
who  wrote  within  a  year  of  Jefferies'  death,  *  the  simple 
old  faith  came  back  to  him,'  and  he  '  died  listening  with 
faith  and  love  to  the  words  contained  in  the  old  Book ' 
{i.e.,  the  Bible).  But  a  few  years  later,  discussing  this 
'  conversion  '  with  Mr.  Henry  S.  Salt,  Besant  wrote  : 

'  I  stated  in  my  "  Eulogy  "  that  he  died  a  Christian. 
His  wife  read  to  him  from  the  Gospel  of  St.  Luke,  and  he 
acquiesced.  But,  /  have  since  been  informed,  he  was  weak — 
too  weak  not  to  acquiesce,  and  his  views  never  changed 
from  the  time  that  he  wrote  "  The  Story  of  My  Heart." 
For  my  own  part,  it  surprised  me  to  hear  that  a  man  who 
had  written  those  pages  should  ever  return  to  orthodoxy, 
but  I  had  no  choice  but  to  record  the  story  as  it  happened 
and  was  told  to  me.  .  .  .  When  a  man  gets  as  far  as 
Jefferies — when  he  has  shed  and  scattered  to  the  winds 
all  sacerdotalism  and  authority — he  does  not  go  back. 
You  neglected  to  notice  that,  if  he  went  back  at  all,  it 
was  not  to  ask  for  the  priest  or  the  last  Sacraments  of 
the  Church.  He  was  satisfied  with  the  words  of  the 
great  socialist  and  anti-sacerdotalist  '  {i.e.,  Jesus). ^ 

*  C.  W.  M.,  in  Gir/s'  Own  Paper,  December  21,  1889. 
t  Ibid.  \  Ibid. 

§  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  August  16,  1887. 
II  Eulogy  of  Richard  Jefferies. 
^  Quoted  in  The  Faith  of  Richard  Jefferies.,  by  Henry  S.  Salt. 


LAST  ESSAYS  315 

This  incident  has  been  interpreted  in  two  ways.  One 
party  says  that  Jefferies  died  an  orthodox  Christian, 
and  some  would  even  go  so  far  as  to  make  him  a  sort  of 
Dr.  Faustus,  who  was  redeemed  at  the  last  hour.  The 
other  party  says  : 

'  Herein  is  the  simple  explanation  of  Jefferies'  alleged 
conversion.  He  was  very  weak — so  weak  that  he  perhaps 
could  not  but  yield  outward  acquiescence  to  the  affec- 
tionate importunities  of  those  around  him,  while  still 
inwardly  holding  the  views  which,  as  he  recently  avowed, 
"  expressed  his  most  serious  convictions."  So  long  as 
he  retained  any  slight  measure  of  health  and  strength ; 
so  long  as  he  was  able,  even  at  rare  intervals,  to  enjoy 
that  vital  communion  with  Nature  on  which  his  whole 
being  depended ;  so  long,  in  fact,  as  he  was  Richard 
Jefferies,  and  not  a  shattered  wreck,  he  was  a  free- 
thinker. Even  at  the  last  he  withdrew  no  syllable  of  his 
writings  ;  he  saw  no  priest ;  he  made  no  acceptance  of 
any  sort  of  dogma.  His  own  published  statements 
remain,  and  will  remain,  beyond  dispute  or  question,  the 
authoritative  expression  of  his  life-creed.'* 

With  the  interpretations  that  come  of  private  grief  and 
affection,  nobody  outside  the  family  and  friends  of  the 
dead  is  concerned.  But  there  are  some  narrow  sectarians 
who  would  ignore  the  work  of  Jefferies'  maturity,  and  lay 
stress  upon  words  which  might  be  paralleled  from  the 
condemned  cell.  They  strike  him  when  he  is  down, 
which  is  a  liberty  hardly  to  be  conceded  to  Christians, 
even  when  the  opponent  is  a  freethinker.  They  do  not 
claim  that  his  thought  progressed  to  this  orthodox  end  ; 
but,  intruding  upon  a  matter  of  the  spirit  with  dead 
words — with  words  once  spiritual  in  which  they  have 
slain  the  spirit — they  would  drag  the  dead  man  into  an 
unquiet  air,  as  of  a  political  election,  in  order  that  he 
who  pursued  the  truth  may  vote  as  a  partisan.  His 
pursuit  was  tripped  up  by  death,  and  to  attach  any 
importance  to  his  fallen  hours  is  to  cast  scorn  upon  life, 

*  Richard  Jefferies  :  His  Life  and  His  Ideals,  by  Henry  S.  Salt. 


3i6        THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

and  is  like  ridiculing  the  lover  and  praiser  of  a  vanished 
beauty  because  she  is  now  a  handful  of  dust.  It  is  even 
more  impious  and  absurd,  since  Jeff  cries'  work  survives 
and  is  a  power.  The  last  words  of  anyone,  distorted  by 
mortal  pain  and  the  circumstances  of  parting,  cannot  be 
a  power,  whether  he  dies  acquiescent,  or  dehrious,  or 
fuddled  by  death,  or  with  pain-wrung  blasphemy  on  his 
lips.  Those  who  would  make  capital  out  of  these  words 
of  Jefferies — and  how  far  are  they  '  intelligible,'  and  is 
not '  all  philosophy  is  hollow  '  almost  equal  to  blasphemy  ? 
— are  already  comfortable  in  their  own  conceit,  and  need 
not  this  poor  addition  to  their  calendar.  The  majority 
will  be  those  who,  orthodox  Christian  or  not,  see  in  the 
work  of  Jefferies,  when  he  was  most  alive,  a  force  at  one 
with  the  good  that  is  in  the  world,  with  what  makes  for 
wisdom,  beauty,  and  joy,  whether  it  can  usefully  be  con- 
nected with  Christianity  or  not. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

RECAPITULATION 

Richard  Jefferies  was,  then,  always  a  child  of  the 
soil,  as  well  as  of  the  earth  in  a  larger  sense.  From 
father  and  mother  he  had  the  blood  of  Wiltshire  and 
Gloucestershire  farmers.  He  was  the  second  child  (the 
eldest  child,  a  daughter,  died  young)  of  a  younger  son 
of  a  younger  son.  But  it  was  country  blood  with  a 
difference  :  both  Gyde  and  Jefferies  had  been  dipped 
in  London,  and  had  followed  there  the  trade  of  printing  ; 
and  though  old  John  Jefferies,  the  grandfather,  retired 
early,  and  not  quite  contentedly,  to  the  mill  and  the 
bakery  and  the  farm,  and  Charles  Gyde  '  of  Islington  ' 
was  buried  in  Pitchcombe  churchyard,  they  had  been 
troubled  by  this  change  from  the  fields  to  Fleet  Street 
and  back  again.  Richard's  mother,  in  spite  of  her  good 
butter,  was  not  a  countrywoman,  and  she  was  soured  by 
the  life  of  one.  His  father  left  Wiltshire  as  a  young  man, 
and  travelled  roughly,  seeing  the  cities  of  the  United 
States.  Of  their  sons,  the  two  younger  worked  on  the 
farm  till  it  was  given  up  ;  then  the  second  of  them  went 
to  America  and  stayed  there.  The  youngest  lives  in  a 
town.  Richard  Jefferies,  the  eldest  son,  would  hardly 
ever  work  on  the  land.  Some  of  his  schooldays  and 
most  of  his  early  holidays  he  spent  near  London,  at  Syden- 
ham, and  when  he  was  very  young  began  to  be  interested 
in  his  uncle's  printing-works.  Most  of  his  relations  had 
seen  more  of  books  than  the  majority  of  country  people 
Two  of  his  uncles  were  men  of  unusual  accomplishment 
— John  Luckett  Jefferies,  a  draughtsman  and  musician  ; 

3^7 


3i8       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

Frederick  Gyde,  draughtsman  and  engraver.  Uncle  and 
aunt  sent  books  to  Coate  Farm.  Father  and  grandfather 
had  a  taste  for  books. 

The  boy  gave  no  early  promise,  and  no  special  care  was 
taken  of  him.  He  attended  the  ordinary  schools  of  the 
poorer  middle  class,  and  those  irregularly  and  never 
after  he  was  fifteen.  When  not  at  school,  he  was  out  of 
doors,  picking  up  the  usual  knowledge  of  a  farmer's  son, 
but  carefully,  and  more  and  more  with  the  help  of  books. 
Home  life  was  not  happy  ;  he  was  a  retiring  and  un- 
popular boy,  not  strong,  but  of  great  courage.  Whether 
he  was  more  unpopular  than  any  unusual  boy  is  likely 
to  be  I  do  not  know  ;  but  all  through  his  life  he  seems 
to  have  attracted  little  affection,  and  his  writings  show 
that,  in  return,  he  loved,  but  had  no  likings.  Something 
there  was  in  him,  perhaps,  akin  to  his  uncomfortable 
humour,  which  unconsciously  repelled — something  that 
creeps  into  his  writings,  particularly  in  the  more  emphatic 
parts,  and  gives  us  a  twinge  as  at  an  unpleasant  voice. 
He  dreamed  away  much  time,  and  came  early  to  a  sense 
of  loneliness  among  men  and  of  peculiar  intimacy  with 
Nature,  whom  he  first  courted  as  a  sportsman.  Un- 
willing to  work  on  the  farm,  he  was  obliged  to  do  something 
soon  after  his  schooldays,  and  he  took  to  reporting  for  a 
local  newspaper  when  he  was  seventeen.  He  began  to 
read  books  of  science  and  philosophy.  He  found  himself 
at  still  greater  odds  with  his  family,  who  accused  him  of 
indolence.  He  expressed  himself  in  crude,  sensational 
stories  and  in  local  histories.  He  suffered  from  severe 
illnesses  and  great  weakness  several  times.  When  he 
was  not  much  past  twenty  he  was  engaged  to  the  daughter 
of  a  neighbouring  farmer. 

Then  he  was  moved  by  the  agitation  of  the  agricultural 
labourers  for  higher  wages  to  write  some  articles  on  the 
condition  of  the  Wiltshire  labourer,  and  these  were  printed 
as  letters  in  the  Times.  Here  he  first  showed  a  power  of 
forcible  and  simple  expression,  and  a  knowledge  of  those 
things  among  which  his  home  life  and  work  had  thrown 


RECAPITULATION  319 

him.  His  point  of  view  was  that  which  the  small  farmer 
would  naturally  take,  but  the  sense  and  force  of  the 
writing  was  worthy  of  the  best  journalism,  and  had  he 
continued  to  work  in  this  way  he  might  have  made  a 
good  middle-class  income  in  London.  But  he  was 
becoming  master  of  an  instrument  on  which  he  wanted 
to  play  other  tunes.  Instead  of  short  stories,  he  now 
wrote  novels,  which  are  nearly  always  absurd  where  they 
concern  well-dressed  people  who  tip  in  gold,  but  are 
charming  and  true  wherever  the  life  of  the  country  and 
of  quiet  country  people  is  touched.  By  fiction  he  hoped 
in  vain  to  make  a  large  sum  of  money  for  himself  and  the 
wife  whom  he  married  in  his  twenty-sixth  year  ;  but  he 
did  succeed  in  acquiring,  partly  by  means  of  it,  a  more 
emotional  and  profound  means  of  expression  than  he 
was  likely  to  have  done  by  his  sensible  and  practical 
articles  on  agriculture  and  country  society.  He  lost 
money  by  his  fiction,  and  wrote  fewer  magazine  articles 
than  he  might  have  done  had  he  given  himself  exclusively 
up  to  them,  according  to  the  posthumous  advice  of  a 
biographer.  Meantime  his  intimacy  with  Nature  was 
ripening.  He  was  becoming  a  richly  experienced  observer 
of  wild  life  in  the  South  of  England  under  all  conditions  ; 
and  his  passionate  moments  of  oneness  with  Nature  were 
becoming  clearer,  more  intelligible  to  himself,  and  more 
capable  of  articulate  expression.  Thus,  he  was  at  the 
same  time  developing  along  parallel  paths  his  faculties 
as  a  watcher  of  birds  and  animals,  of  colour  and  form  in 
earth  and  sky,  as  critic  of  social  conditions,  as  student  of 
human  life,  and  as  mystic.  During  this  period  of  various 
and  often  wasteful  production,  nearly  the  whole  of  the 
third  decade  of  his  life,  his  health  was  fairly  good,  and 
when  he  was  almost  thirty  he  moved  to  Surbiton,  near 
London,  in  order  to  be  closer  to  editors  and  publishers 
and  the  British  Museum. 

He  had  already  begun  to  write  short  sketches  of  the 
country,  of  the  men,  the  wild  life,  and  the  landscape  ; 
but  it  was  only  after  reaching  Surbiton  that  he  began  to 


320       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

concentrate  himself  upon  this  work.  London  thriUed 
and  delighted  and  repelled  him,  and  probably  stimulated 
him.  He  certainly  found  a  market  there  for  his  work, 
which  was  readily  printed  in  newspapers  and  magazines, 
and  afterwards  published  with  applause  in  the  form  of 
books.  With  little  arrangement,  but  with  the  charm  of 
exuberance  and  freshness,  he  poured  out  his  stores  of 
country  knowledge.  There  had  been  unlettered  men 
who  knew  much  that  he  knew  ;  there  had  been  greater 
naturalists  and  more  experienced  sportsmen,  more 
magical  painters — at  least,  in  verse — of  country  things  ; 
but  no  one  English  writer  before  had  had  such  a  wide 
knowledge  of  labourers,  farmers,  gamekeepers,  poachers,of 
the  fields,  and  woods,  and  waters,  and  the  sky  above  them, 
by  day  and  night  ;  of  their  inhabitants  that  run  and  fly 
and  creep,  that  are  still  and  fragrant  and  many-coloured. 
No  writer  had  been  able  to  express  this  knowledge  with 
such  a  pleasing  element  of  personality  in  the  style  that 
mere  ignorance  was  no  bar  to  its  enjoyment.  When  he 
wrote  these  books — '  The  Amateur  Poacher  '  and  its 
companions — he  had  no  rival,  nor  have  they  since  been 
equalled  in  purity,  abundance,  and  rusticity.  The  wTiter 
was  clearly  as  much  of  the  soil  as  the  things  which  he 
described.  In  his  books  the  things  themselves  were 
alive,  were  given  a  new  life  by  an  artist's  words,  a  life 
more  intense  than  they  had  had  for  any  but  the  few 
before  they  were  thus  brought  on  to  the  printed  page. 
Here  was  the  life  of  man  and  animal,  the  crude  and  lavish 
beauty  of  English  country-life  in  the  nineteenth  century, 
with  glimpses  of  the  older  life  remembered  by  the  men 
and  women  who  still  ploughed  or  kept  sheep  in  Wiltshire 
and  Surrey.  In  writing  these  four  books,  Jefferies  was 
mainly  drawing  upon  his  memory  and  his  Wiltshire  notes, 
depicting  things  as  he  had  seen  and  known  them  in  his 
childhood  and  youth.  The  expression  is  mature,  indeed, 
but  the  matter  simple,  the  spirit,  as  a  rule,  one  of  whole- 
some old-fashioned  enjoyment,  the  reflection  contented 
and  commonplace. 


RECAPITULATION  321 

When  these  books  had  been  written  his  good  health 
was  at  an  end,  and  when,  in  '  Nature  near  London,'  he 
came  to  describe  scenes  which  he  had  not  known  as  a 
young  man,  there  was  a  new  subtlety  in  the  observation, 
at  once  a  more  microscopic  and  a  more  sensuous  eye, 
more  tenderness,  a  greater  love  of  making  pictures  and 
of  dwelling  upon  colours  and  forms.  There  was  no  more 
of  the  rude  rustic  content  to  be  out  rabbiting  and  fishing. 
The  tall  countryman  who  knew  and  loved  all  weathers 
as  they  came  was  bending,  and  spring  was  now  intensely 
spring  to  his  reawakened  senses.  The  seasons,  night  and 
day,  heat  and  cold,  sun  and  rain  and  snow,  became  more 
sharply  differentiated  in  his  mind,  and  came  to  him  with 
many  fresh  cries  of  joyous  or  pathetic  appeal.  In  the 
early  books  the  country  lies  before  us  very  much  as  it 
would  have  appeared  to  James  Luckett  or  old  John 
Jefferies.  They  would  have  recognized  everything  in 
them,  if  they  had  had  the  luck  to  read  them ;  the  sport, 
the  poaching,  the  curious  notes  on  wild  things,  the  old 
customs  and  pieces  of  gossip — these  stand  out  clear  and 
unquestionable  as  in  an  old  woodcut.  It  was  a  priceless 
gift,  smelling  of  youth  and  the  days  before  the  steam- 
plough.  But  how  different  these  later  essays  !  Pain, 
anxiety,  fatigue,  had  put  a  sharp  edge  on  life — a  keen 
edge,  easily  worn  out.  He  was  still  glad  to  be  with  a 
shepherd,  to  hear  about  the  sport,  but  it  was  character- 
istic of  the  new  period  that  he  should  watch  a  trout  for 
days  and  years,  and  be  careful  lest  anyone  should  rob 
the  pool  of  it ;  that  he  should  love  the  old  wooden  plough 
with  no  machine-made  lines,  and  discover  the  '  bloom  ' 
in  the  summer  atmosphere  ;  and  confess  that  he  often 
went  to  London  with  no  object,  and,  arriving  there,  wan- 
dered wherever  the  throng  might  carry  him.  In  these 
later  essays  there  is  often  much  observation  that  may  be 
read  for  its  own  sake.  But  something  was  creeping  into 
the  style,  staining  it  with  more  delicate  dyes.  The  bloom 
in  the  atmosphere,  the  hues  on  an  old  barn-roof,  were  in 
part  his  own  life-blood.     In  the  earlier  work  we  think 


322       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

only  of  the  author  where  he  is  explicitly  autobiographical, 
though  we  may  exercise  our  fancy  about  him  in  an 
irrelevant  way.  Many  had  seen  Nature  just  so,  though 
he  was  alone  in  so  writing  of  it.  In  the  later  he  was 
more  and  more  a  singular  man,  a  discoverer  of  colours, 
of  moods,  of  arrangements.  This  was  the  landscape  of 
sensuous,  troubled  men  ;  here  were  most  rare,  most  deli- 
cate, most  fleeting  things.  The  result  was  at  once  por- 
traiture and  landscape.  Perhaps  the  mystic  element  in 
Jefferies,  unintentionally  asserted,  gave  its  new  serious- 
ness to  this  work.  Except  in  the  last  words  of  '  The 
Poacher,'  there  had  been  little  sign  of  it  ;  but  now,  in 
the  fanciful  narrative  of  '  Wood  Magic  '  and  the  auto- 
biographical story  of  '  Bevis,'  the  mystic  promise  was 
clear  in  those  passages  where  the  child  Bevis  talked  to 
the  wind  or  felt  with  his  spirit  out  to  the  stars  and  to 
the  sea.  For  a  long  time  Jefferies  must  have  been  im- 
perfectly conscious  of  the  meaning  of  his  mystic  com- 
munion with  Nature.  It  was  as  a  deep  pool  that  slowly 
fills  with  an  element  so  clear  that  it  is  unnoticed  until  it 
overflows.  It  overflowed,  and  Jefferies  wrote  '  The  Story 
of  My  Heart '  in  a  passion. 

Here  for  the  first  time  was  the  whole  man,  brain,  heart, 
and  soul,  the  body  and  the  senses,  all  that  thought  and 
dreamed  and  enjoyed  and  aspired  in  him.  At  every 
entrance  the  universe  came  pouring  in,  by  all  the  old 
ways  and  by  ways  untrodden  before.  The  book  is  the 
pledge  of  the  value  of  Jefferies'  work.  It  reveals  the 
cosmic  consciousness  that  had  become  fully  developed  in 
him  soon  after  he  turned  thirty.  Such  acute  humanity 
as  is  to  be  found  in  '  The  Story  of  My  Heart '  gives  us 
confidence  that  what  its  possessor  did  in  his  prime,  before 
and  after  it,  is  not  to  be  neglected  of  those  who  are 
touched  by  mortal  things.  To  past,  present,  and  future 
he  offers  a  hand  that  is  not  to  be  denied.  Having  tasted 
of  physical,  mental,  and  spiritual  life,  and  aware  of  the 
diverse  life  of  the  world,  in  man,  in  beast,  in  tree,  in 
earth,  and  sky,  and  sea,  and  stars,  he  comes  to  us  as  from 


J 


RECAPITULATION  323 

a  holy  feast,  face  flushed,  head  crowned.  He  was  dis- 
contented to  some  purpose  with  our  age,  with  modernity, 
and  not  merely  discontented,  for  he  unsealed  a  new 
fountain  of  religious  joy,  and  in  the  books  that  followed, 
whether  he  wrote  of  men  or  of  Nature,  he  gave  a  rich, 
sensuous,  and  hearty  pleasure,  lofty  delights  of  the  spirit, 
a  goad  to  a  bolder,  more  generous  life  in  our  own  inner 
deeps  and  in  our  social  intercourse  ;  he  pointed  to  an 
everlasting  source  of  truth  and  joy  ;  he  created  a  woman, 
Felise,  whom  it  is  a  divine  inspiration  to  know,  and  others, 
men  and  women,  scarred,  mournful,  but  undespairing, 
whose  ordinary  humanity,  as  in  '  Amaryllis,'  was  drawn 
with  such  minuteness  and  love  that  we  enjoy  while  we 
suffer,  and  rise  ourselves  with  a  useful  discontent  and  an 
impulse  towards  what  is  more  beautiful  and  true.  '  The 
Story  of  My  Heart  '  gathered  up  into  itself  all  the  spiritual 
experiences  which  had  been  dimly  hinted  at  in  the  early 
novels  and  outdoor  books.  As  an  autobiography  it  is 
unsurpassed,  because  it  is  alone.  It  is  a  bold,  intimate 
revelation  of  a  singular  modern  mind  in  a  style  of  such 
vitality  that  the  thoughts  are  as  acts,  and  have  a  strong 
motive  and  suggestive  power.  '  The  De\vy  Morn,'  which 
followed,  embodied  the  passion  of  the  autobiography  in 
the  form  of  woman,  beautiful  and  young  and  passionate. 
Jefferies'  thinking  was  symptomatic  of  the  age  rather 
than  original ;  it  is  stimulating  because  it  is  personal. 
'  He  beginneth  not  with  obscure  definitions,  which  must 
blur  the  margent  with  interpretations,  and  load  the 
memory  with  doubtfulnesse  ;  but  he  commeth  to  you  with 
words  set  in  delightful  proportion,  .  .  .  and  with  a  tale, 
forsooth,  he  commeth  unto  you,  with  a  tale  which  holdeth 
children  from  play,  and  old  men  from  the  chimney-corner.' 
His  asserted  lack  of  tradition,  his  rebuke  of  the  past,  his 
saying  that  the  old  books  must  be  rewritten,  is  a  challenge 
to  the  present  to  take  heed  of  itself.  There  is  no  real 
lack  of  a  sense  of  the  past  in  one  who  has  a  sense  of 
co-operation  with  the  future,  which  adds  to  the  dignity 
of  life,  gives  a  social  and  eternal  value  to  our  most  solitary 

21 — 2 


324       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

and  spiritual  acts,  and  promises  us  an  immortality  more 
responsible  than  that  of  the  theologians,  as  real  if  not  as 
flattering. 

The  mystic  consciousness  which  gave  the  original  im- 
pulse to  '  The  Story  of  My  Heart '  did  not  die  away, 
though  it  was  but  seldom  distinctly  expressed  after 
'  The  Dewy  Morn.'  It  was  diffused  through  his  maturest 
essays,  nevertheless,  such  as  '  The  Pageant  of  Summer,' 
'  Meadow  Thoughts,'  '  Nature  in  the  Louvre,'  and  '  Winds 
of  Heaven,'  effecting  a  greater  seriousness,  a  wider  rami- 
fication of  suggestion,  a  deeper  colouring ;  while  in  the 
semi-scientific  essays  it  is  to  be  found  in  the  increased 
imagination,  and  in  the  essays  criticizing  agricultural  con- 
ditions it  takes  the  form  of  deeper  sympathies  and  more 
advanced  thought.  It  gave  a  more  solemn  note  to  the 
joy  which  is  the  most  striking  thing  in  all  his  books, 
whether  it  is  the  joy  of  the  child,  the  sportsman,  the 
lover,  the  adventurer,  the  mystic,  the  artist,  the  friend 
of  men.  Against  this  his  ill-health  is  nothing  to  record, 
except  as  something  triumphed  over  by  the  spirit  of  life. 
His  sadness  came  of  his  appetite  for  joy,  which  was  in 
excess  of  the  twenty-four  hours  day  and  the  possible 
threescore  years  and  ten.  By  this  excess,  resembling  the 
excess  of  the  oak  scattering  its  doomed  acorns  and  the 
sun  parching  what  it  has  fostered,  he  is  at  one  with 
Nature  and  the  forces  of  life,  and  at  the  same  time  by 
his  creative  power  he  rescues  something  of  what  they 
are  whirling  down  to  oblivion  and  the  open  sea,  and 
makes  of  it  a  rich  garden,  high-walled  against  them. 

Many  of  the  essays  in  '  The  Open  Air  '  and  '  The  Life 
of  the  Fields  '  belong  to  the  same  inspiration.  Nature, 
described  by  passionate  words,  is  harmonized  with  the 
writer's  mind  and  with  his  hopes  for  humanity.  Natural 
beauty  and  humanity  are  always  together  there.  He 
wished  to  plunge  human  thought  into  sea  and  air  and 
green  things  that  it  might  be  restored,  as  he  hoped  to  be 
restored  himself  in  the  air  of  Brighton  and  Crowborough. 
Almost  fevered  was  his  joy  in  seeing  and  thinking  of  the 


RECAPITULATION  325 

beauty  of  Nature  and  humanity.  Ideas,  images,  allusions, 
a  rhythm  here,  a  thought  there,  recurring  like  a  burden, 
produce  an  extraordinarily  opulent  effect,  whether  the 
subject  is  a  fashionable  crowd,  a  railway-station,  or  a 
midsummer  hedge.  This  brilliancy  can  be  hectic  and 
end  in  languor,  perhaps,  but  ultimately  it  is  bracing,  and 
the  north-west  wind  blows  more  often  than  the  south. 

There  followed  '  After  London,'  '  Amaryllis,'  and  many 
of  the  essays  in  '  Field  and  Hedgerow.'  The  exuberance 
of  colour  and  fancy  in  the  preceding  period  was  slowly 
settling  down.  In  '  Amaryllis  '  there  is  none  of  the  glory 
of  '  The  Dewy  Morn.'  There  is  even  an  appearance,  in 
some  of  this  later  work,  of  a  return  to  the  style  of  '  The 
Poacher,'  though  that  simple  lucidity  and  ease  was 
refined  and  enriched  by  the  poetic  years  between. 
'  Amaryllis  '  was  as  new  and  individual  as  the  auto- 
biography. It  tells  no  tale,  and  its  construction  is 
obviously  unusual,  as  well  as  strong  and  inartificial  ; 
but  it  gives  a  picture  of  a  small  English  farmhouse,  and 
of  a  farmer  and  his  family,  which  is  humorous,  pathetic, 
and  intensely  alive.  Restless  and  sad  and  gay  and 
wonderfully  kind  was  the  humanity  that  saw  the  Idens 
and  the  Flammas  thus  ;  that  painted  them  stroke  by 
stroke,  correcting  or  enhancing  earlier  effects,  until  the 
whole  thing  breathed.  '  Wild  Flowers,'  '  My  Old  Village,' 
'  Hours  of  Spring,'  and  many  more  were  from  the  same 
source.  They  have  the  same  minute  observation,  the 
same  maturity  of  comment,  the  same  atmosphere  laden 
with  opposites.  They  are  pieces  of  impassioned  prose,  in 
which  the  writer,  expressing  his  thoughts  and  recollec- 
tions, moulded  the  form  of  the  essay  into  something  as 
original  as  it  was  in  the  hands  of  Hazlitt  or  Lamb.  Both 
in  their  mingling  of  reflection  and  description,  and  in 
their  abundant  play  of  emotion,  they  stand  by  them- 
selves and  enlarge  the  boundaries  of  this  typical  form 
of  English  prose. 

Few  men  have  put  themselves  into  words  with  such 
unconsidered  variety.     He  expressed  the  whole  range  of 


326       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

a  man's  experience  in  the  open  air.  This  was  not  done 
without  risks  and  some  loss.  He  commented  on  many 
matters  of  his  day  and  country.  His  lonely,  retiring, 
and  yet  emphatic  egoism  made  a  hundred  mistakes, 
narrow,  ill-considered,  splenetic,  fatuous.  He  was  big 
enough  to  take  these  risks,  and  he  made  his  impression 
by  his  sympathies,  his  creation,  not  by  his  antipathies. 
He  drew  Nature  and  human  life  as  he  saw  it,  and  he  saw 
it  with  an  unusucd  eye  for  detail  and  with  unusual  wealth 
of  personality  behind.  And  in  all  of  his  best  writing  he 
turns  from  theme  to  theme,  and  his  seriousness,  his  utter 
frankness,  the  obvious  importance  of  the  matter  to  him- 
self, give  us  confidence  in  following  him  ;  and  though  the 
abundance  of  what  he  saw  will  continue  to  attract  many, 
it  is  for  his  way  of  seeing,  for  his  composition,  his  glowing 
colours,  his  ideas,  for  the  passionate  music  wrought  out 
of  his  life,  that  we  must  chiefly  go  to  him.  He  is  on  the 
side  of  health,  of  beauty,  of  strength,  of  truth,  of  im- 
provement in  life  to  be  wrought  by  increasing  honesty, 
subtlety,  tenderness,  courage,  and  foresight.  His  own 
character,  and  the  characters  of  his  men  and  women, 
fortify  us  in  our  intention  to  live.  Nature,  as  he  thought 
of  it,  and  as  his  books  present  it,  is  a  great  flood  of 
physical  and  spiritual  sanity,  '  of  pure  ablution  round 
earth's  human  shores,'  to  which  he  bids  us  resort.  Turn- 
ing to  England  in  particular,  he  makes  us  feel  what  a 
heritage  are  its  hills  and  waters  ;  he  even  went  so  far  as 
to  hint  that  some  of  it  should  be  national.  It  is  he  who, 
above  all  other  writers,  has  produced  the  largest,  the 
most  abundant,  and  the  most  truthful  pictures  of  Southern 
English  country,  both  wild  and  cultivated. 

Of  the  man  himself  we  know,  and  apparently  can  know, 
very  little.  He  spent  as  much  as  possible  of  his  short 
life  of  thirty-eight  years  in  the  valleys  and  on  the  hills 
of  Wiltshire,  Surrey,  Kent,  and  Sussex.  His  reading  was 
wide,  but  of  eccentric  range.  In  habits  he  was  always 
simple,  and  he  did  nothing  unusual  except  to  look  after 
his  own  affairs.     He  made  few  friends  ;  his  habit  of  taking 


RECAPITULATION  327 

long  solitary  walks,  and  later  his  ill  health,  kept  him 
from  seeking  society,  and  he  was  happy  with  the  relations 
and  the  friends  of  simple  tastes  among  whom  he  found 
himself.  He  was  homely  and  unaffected  in  their  com- 
pany, and  with  them,  as  with  literary  and  other  acquaint- 
ances, he  talked  not  much,  but  easily,  on  his  own  subjects 
and  on  current  matters.  He  wrote  few  letters,  and  in 
none,  apparently,  expressed  himself  with  anything  like 
the  deeper  egoism  of  his  books.  His  life  went  perfectly 
well,  nourished  by  his  own  energy  and  by  domestic  affec- 
tion. He  had  one  difficulty — ill  health — which  in  its 
turn  threatened  poverty.  So  long  as  he  could  send 
articles  to  the  papers  and  magazines  he  was  well  off,  but 
seldom  able  to  save.  He  enjoyed,  simply  and  passionately, 
his  own  life  and  the  life  of  others,  and  in  his  books  that 
enjoyment  survives,  and  their  sincerity  and  variety  keep, 
and  will  keep,  them  alive  ;  for  akin  to,  and  part  of,  his 
gift  of  love  was  his  power  of  using  words.  Nothing  is 
more  mysterious  than  this  power,  along  with  the  kindred 
powers  of  artist  and  musician.  It  is  the  supreme  proof, 
above  beauty,  physical  strength,  intelligence,  that  a  man 
or  woman  lives.  Lighter  than  gossamer,  words  can 
entangle  and  hold  fast  all  that  is  loveliest,  and  strongest, 
and  fleetest,  and  most  enduring,  in  heaven  and  earth. 
They  are  for  the  moment,  perhaps,  excelled  by  the  might 
of  policy  or  beauty,  but  only  for  the  moment,  and  then 
all  has  passed  away ;  but  the  words  remain,  and  though 
they  also  pass  away  under  the  smiling  of  the  stars,  they 
mark  our  utmost  achievement  in  time.  They  outlive  the 
life  of  which  they  seem  the  lightest  emanation — the 
proud,  the  vigorous,  the  melodious  words.  Jefferies' 
words,  it  has  been  well  said,  are  like  a  glassy  covering 
of  the  things  described.  But  they  are  often  more  than 
that  :  the  things  are  forgotten,  and  it  is  an  aspect  of 
them,  a  recreation  of  them,  a  finer  development  of  them, 
which  endures  in  the  written  words.  These  words  call 
no  attention  to  themselves.  There  is  not  an  uncommon 
word,  nor  a  word  in  an  uncommon  sense,  all  through 


328       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

Jefferies'  books.  There  are  styles  which  are  noticeable 
for  their  ver}^  lucidity  and  naturalness  ;  Jefferies'  is  not 
noticeable  even  to  this  extent.  There  are  styles  more 
majestic,  more  persuasive,  more  bewildering,  but  none 
which  so  rapidly  convinces  the  reader  of  its  source  in  the 
heart  of  one  of  the  sincerest  of  men.  Sometimes  it  is 
slipshod — in  sound  often  so,  for  he  had  not  a  fine  ear. 
It  comes  right,  as  a  rule,  by  force  of  true  vision  and 
sincerity.  On  a  moving  subject,  and  amidst  friends,  he 
would  speak  much  as  he  wrote.  He  did  not  make  great 
phrases,  and  hardly  any  single  sentence  would  prove  him 
a  master.  He  could  argue,  describe  visible  things  and 
states  of  mind  ;  he  could  be  intimate,  persuasive,  and 
picturesque.  No  one  quoted  so  rarely  as  he.  He  drew 
many  sides  of  indoor  and  outdoor  rustic  life,  human  and 
animal,  moving  and  at  rest,  and  in  his  words  these  things 
retain  their  pure  rusticity.  Later,  the  neighbourhood  of 
London  made  him  dwell  more  sensuously  than  before  on 
the  natural  beauty  which  contrasted  with  the  town. 
Later  still,  the  sensuous  was  merged  and  mingled  with 
the  spiritual,  and  the  effect  was  more  and  more  poetic — 
it  might  be  said  religious  ;  and  his  style  expanded  to  aid 
these  larger  purposes,  thus  being  able  in  turn  to  depict 
Nature  from  the  points  of  view  of  the  countryman,  of 
the  sensuous  painter,  of  the  poet  of  humanity.  So,  too, 
with  human  life.  Whether  he  touched  it  lightly  and 
pictorially,  as  in  '  Round  about  a  Great  Estate,'  or  with 
love  and  fire,  as  in  '  The  Dewy  Mom,'  or  with  minute 
reconstruction  of  acts,  thoughts,  conversation,  and  en- 
vironment, as  in  '  Amaryllis,'  he  was  equal  to  the  different 
demands  upon  his  words.  Though  he  had  read  much,  it 
was  without  having  played  the  sedulous  ape  that  he 
found  himself  in  the  great  tradition,  an  honourable 
descendant  of  masters,  the  disciple  of  none,  and  himself 
secure  of  descendants  ;  for  he  allied  himself  to  Nature, 
and  still  plays  his  part  in  her  office  of  granting  health,  and 
hearty  pleasure,  and  consolation,  and  the  delights  of  the 
senses  and  of  the  spirit,  to  men. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

I.  BOOKS  AND  OTHER  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD 
JEFFERIES 

1866.  North  Wilts  Herald  :  '  To  a  Fashionable  Bonnet,'  '  Traits 

of  the  Olden  Time,'  '  A  Strange  Story,'  '  Henrique  Beau- 
mont,' '  Who  will  Win  ?  or,  American  Adventure,' 
'  Masked,'  '  T.T.T.,'  '  The  Battle  of  1866.' 

1867.  North  Wilts  Herald  (April)  :   '  History  of  Malmesbury.' 
1867-72.  North    Wilts   Herald   and    Swindon   Advertiser  :   Topo- 
graphical and  other  articles  on  Swindon  and  the  neigh- 
bourhood. 

1868.  '  Caesar  Borgia  ;  or.  The  King  of  Crime  :  a  Tragedy  '  (un- 

published) . 

1870.  Verses  on  the  Exile  of  the  Prince  Imperial  (unpublished). 

1871.  'Fortune;    or,  The   Art   of   Success'   (sent   to   D'Israeli; 

unpublished) . 

1872.  Swindon  Advertiser  (November  4)  :  '  Antiquities  of  Swindon 

and  its  Neighbourhood — Upper  Upham.' 

The  Times  (November  14  and  23)  :  Three  letters  on  Wilt- 
shire Labourers  and  on  the  Allotment  System. 

'  Only  a  Girl,'  novel  (unpublished). 

1873.  '  Reporting,  Editing,  and  Authorship  :  Practical  Hints  for 

Beginners  in  Literature.'  By  R.  Jefferies.  (London  : 
John  Snow  and  Co.,  2,  Ivy  Lane,  Paternoster  Row.) 

'  A  Memoir  of  the  Goddards  of  North  Wilts.  Compiled 
from  Ancient  Records,  Registers,  and  Family  Papers  '  by 
Richard  Jefferies,  Coate,  Swindon.  (Privately  printed 
by  Simmons  and  Botten,  Shoe  Lane,  E.C.) 

'  Jack  Brass,  Emperor  of  England.'  (T.  Pettit  and  Co., 
Soho.) 

Fraser's  Magazine :  'The  Future  of  Farming.* 

1874.  '  The  Scarlet  Shawl,'  a  novel.     (London  :  Tinsley  Brothers.) 
Fraser's    Magazine  :    '  A    Railway   Accidents    Bill,'    '  The 

Farmer   at   Home,'    '  The   Labourer's   Daily   Life,'    '  An 
English  Homestead,'  '  John  Smith's  Shanty.' 
New  Quarterly  :  '  The  Size  of  Farms.' 
'  The  Rise  of  Maximin,'  a  novel  (unpublished). 
Wilis  ArchcBological  Society's  Magazine  (March)  :  '  Swindon, 
its  History  and  Antiquities.' 1 
329    ' 


330       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

1875.  '  Restless  Human   Hearts,'   a   novel  ;   3   vols.     (London  : 

Tinsley  Brothers.) 

'  In  Summer  Tim.e,'  a  novel  (unpublished). 

'  The  New  Pilgrim's  Progress  ;  or,  A  Christian's  Painful 
Progress  from  the  Town  of  Middle  Class  to  the  Golden 
City  '  (unpublished). 

Fraser's  Magazine  :  '  Field-Faring  Women,'  '  The  Story  of 
Swindon,'  '  The  Shipton  Accident.' 

Graphic  :  '  Women  in  the  Field,'  '  Marlborough  Forest  ' 
(October  23),  '  Village  Churches  '  (December  4). 

New  Quarterly  and  Mark  Lane  Express  :  '  Village  Organiza- 
tion.' 

New  Quarterly  :  '  Allotment  Gardens.' 

Standard  :  '  Cost  of  Agricultural  Labour.' 

1876.  '  Suez-cide  ;  or.  How  Miss  Britannia  bought  a  Dirty  Puddle, 

and  lost  her  Sugar-Plums.'     (London  :  John  Snow  and 

Co.) 
Graphic  :  '  The  Midsummer  Hum  '  (July  15). 
Fortnightly  :  '  The  Power  of  the  Farmers.' 

1877.  '  World's  End  :  A  Story  in  Three  Books,'  3  vols.    (London  : 

Tinsley  Brothers.) 
Fraser's  Magazine  :  '  Unequal  Agriculture.' 
New  Quarterly  :  '  The  Future  of  Country  Society.' 

1878.  *  The  Gamekeeper  at  Home  ;  or.  Sketches  of  Natural  His- 

tory and  Rural  Life  '  (reprinted  from  Pall  Mall  Gazette, 

and  anonymous  at  first).     (London  :  Smith,  Elder  and 

Co.) 
'  The  Proletariate  :  The  Power  of  the  Future,'  and  '  The 

History  of  the  English  Squire  '  (planned,  but  unwritten 

[?]  and  unpublished.) 
First  version  of  '  The  Dewy  Morn  '  (unpublished) . 
Fraser's  Magazine  :  '  A  Great  Agricultural  Problem.' 

1879.  '  Wild  Life  in  a  Southern  County  ;  by  the  Author  of  "  The 

Gamekeeper  at  Home  "  '  (reprinted  from  the  Pall  Mall 
Gazette,  anonymous).     (London  :  Smith,  Elder  and  Co.) 

'The  Amateur  Poacher  ;  by  the  Author  of  "  The  Game- 
keeper at  Home  "  '  (reprinted  from  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette, 
anonymous).     (London  :  Smith,  Elder  and  Co.) 

Time    (April,    )  :    '  Greene    Feme    Farm,'    in    eleven 

chapters  serially. 

Pall  Mall  Gazette  :  '  Under  the  Snow  '  (January  i),  '  Mid- 
summer, '79  '  (December  12). 

1880.  'Hodge  and  his  Masters'   (reprinted  from  the  Standard)) 

2  vols.     (London  :  Smith,  Elder  and  Co.) 
'  Round  about  a  Great  Estate  '  (reprinted  from  the  Pall 
Mall  Gazette).     (London  :  Smith,  Elder  and  Co.) 

1881.  'Wood   Magic,'   a   fable.       (London:    Casscll,    Petter   and 

Galpin;  now  published  by  Messrs.  Longmans,  Green  and 
Co.) 

1882.  '  Be  vis  :  the  Story  of  a  Boy.'     (London  :  Sampson  Low  and 

Co.  ;  now  published  by  Messrs.  Duckworth  and  Co.) 
Knowledge  :  '  The  Sun  and  tlie  Brook  '  (October  13). 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  331 

1883.  'Nature   near   London'    (reprinted    from   the   Standard). 

(London  :  Chatto  and  Windus.) 
'  The  Story  of  My  Heart  :  My  Autobiography.'     (London  : 

Longmans,  Green,  and  Co.) 
Standard  :  '  On  the  Downs  '  (March  23). 

1884.  *  Red  Deer.'     (London  :  Longmans,  Green  and  Co.) 

'  Life  of  the  Fields.'  (London  :  Chatto  and  Windus.) 
(Reprinted  from  Time,  Longmans',  Graphic,  Standard, 
Manchester  Guardian,  Magazine  of  Art,  Gentleman' s  Maga- 
zine, National  Review,  St.  James's  Gazette,  Pall  Mall 
Gazette.) 

'  The  Dewy  Mom,'  2  vols.  (London  :  Bentley ;  transferred 
to  Macmillan  and  Co.)     Out  of  print. 

Chambers'  Journal  :  '  A  King  of  Acres  '  (January),  '  Birds 
of  Spring  '  (March) . 

Longmans'  :  '  After  the  County  Franchise  '  (February). 

1885.  '  After  London  ;  or.  Wild  England.'     (London  :  Cassell  and 

Co.  ;  now  published  by  Duckworth  and  Co.) 
'  The  Open  Air.'     (London  :  Chatto  and  Windus.)     (Re- 
printed   from    English    Illustrated    Magazine,    Chambers' 
Journal,  Good  Words,  Longmans' ,  Manchester  Guardian, 
Pall  Mall,  St.  James's,  Standard.) 
'  A  Bit  of  Human  Nature,'  novel  (unpublished). 
1887.   '  Out  of  the  Season,'  in  '  The  Dove's  Nest  and  Other  Tales.' 
(London  :  Vizetelly.) 
'  Amaryllis  at  the  Fair.'     (London  :  Sampson  Low  and  Co. ; 

now  published  by  Duckworth  and  Co.) 
Longmans'  Magazine  :  '  The  Wiltshire  Labourer.' 
Preface  to  White's  '  Natural  History  of  Selbome.'     (Lon- 
don :  Walter  Scott.) 
1889.  '  Field  and  Hedgerow  :  being  the  Last  Essays  of  Richard 
Jefferies,  collected  by  his  Widow.'     (London  :  Longmans, 
Green  and  Co.)      (Reprinted  from  Longmans' ,  Fortnightly, 
Pall   Mall,    Chambers',    Manchester   Guardian,    Standard, 
English  Illustrated,  Art  Journal,   Magazine  of  Art,   The 
Century.) 
1892.   '  The  Toilers  of  the  Field.'     (London  :  Longmans,  Green 
and   Co.)     (Reprinted    from    the    Times,    Eraser's,    and 
Longmans' .) 

1894.  Longmans'  :  'The  Spring  of  the  Year  '  (June),  '  The  Idle 

Earth  '  (December) . 

1895.  Longmans'  :  '  Nature  and  Eternity  '  (May),  '  Vignettes  from 

Nature  '  (July). 

1896.  '  The  Early  Fiction  of  Richard  Jefferies,'  edited  by  Grace 

Toplis  (London  :  Simpkin,  Marshall  and  Co.)      (Reprinted 

from  the  North  Wilts  Herald  and  Swindon  Advertiser.) 
'T.  T.  T.'     (Wells  :  Artliur  Young.)     (Reprinted  from  the 

North  Wilts  Herald.) 
1904.  '  Amaryllis   at   the    Fair,'   with   introduction   by   Edward 

Garnett.     (London  :  Duckworth  and  Co.) 
'  Be  vis  :  the  Story  of  a  Boy,'  with  introduction  by  E,  V. 

Lucas.     (London  :  Duckworth  and  Co.) 


332       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

II.  BOOKS  AND  OTHER  WRITINGS  RELATING  TO 
RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

1887.  '  Richard  Jefferies  and  the  Open  Air,'  by  Lord  Lymington 

{National  Review,  October). 
Obituary  Notices  in  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  August  15  and  16 
(the    latter    being    by    Mr.    J.    W.    North)  ;    Athenceum, 
August    20  ;    Academy,    August    20  ;    Saturday    Review, 
August  27  ;  Daily  News,  North  Wilts  Herald,  etc. 

1888.  '  The  Story  of  a  Heart,'  by  H.  S.  Salt,  in  To-Day,  June. 
'Richard    Jefferies,'    by    E.    Garnett    {Universal    Review, 

November). 
'  The   Eulogy   of   Richard    Jefiferies,'    by   Walter   Besant 

(Chatto  and  Windus) . 
'  The  Eulogy  '  reviewed  {Pall  Mall  Gazette,  November  17). 
Article  in  Athencsum,  December  8,  by  W.  E.  Henley. 

1889.  '  Richard  Jefferies,'  by  Alan  Wright  {Girl's  Own  Paper. 

August  31). 
'  Richard    Jefferies,'    by    C.    W.    M.    {Girl's    Own    Paper, 
December  21). 

1890.  '  Richard    Jefferies,'    by    F.   Greenwood    {Scots    Observer, 

August  2). 

'  Notes  on  Richard  Jefiferies '  {Murray's  Magazine,  Sep- 
tember). 

'  Round  about  Coate,'  by  P.  Anderson  Graham  {Scots 
Observer,  October  18). 

'  The  Mulberry-Tree,'  a  poem  by  Jefferies  {Scots  Observer, 
November  8). 

'  Richard  Jefferies,'  with  portrait,  in  Great  Thoughts, 
December. 

'  The  Life  of  Henry  David  Thoreau,'  by  H.  S.  Salt  (Bentley 
and  Son).  Contains  comparisons  between  Thoreau  and 
Jefferies. 

'  Views  and  Reviews  :  Essays  in  Appreciation,'  by  W.  E. 
Henley  (London  :  Nutt).  See  pp.  177-182  for  article  re- 
printed from  AthencBum  of  December  8,  1888. 

'  The  Books  of  Richard  Jefferies  '  {Nature  Notes,  i.  194). 

1891.  'Richard    Jefferies,'    article    in    Allibone's    'Critical    Dic- 

tionary of  English  Literature.' 

'  Richard  Jefferies,'  by  H.  S.  Salt,  in  Temple  Bar,  June. 

'  Nature  in  Books :  Some  Studies  in  Biography,'  by  P. 
Anderson  Graham  (London  :  Mcthuen  and  Co.)  See 
Chapter  I.,  '  The  Magic  of  the  Fields.' 

'  The  Pernicious  Works  of  Richard  Jefferies,'  correspond- 
ence in  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  September  8-21. 

'  Did  Richard  Jefferies  die  a  Christian  ?  Reminiscences  by 
People  who  knew  Him.'  Interviews  with  Mr.  Charles 
Jefferies  and  '  One  who  knew  Jefferies '  {Pall  Mall 
Gazette,  September  22). 

'  Did  Richard  Jefferies  die  a  Christian  ?  An  Authoritative 
Account  of  the  Closing  Scene.'  Extracts  from  C.  W.  M.'s 
1889  article  {Pall  Mall  Gazette,  October  3). 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  333 

1891.  'The  Conversion    of    Richard   Jefiferies,'   by   H.   S.   Salt 

{National  Reformer,  October  i8). 
J,  ;        '  Thoughts  on  the  Labour  Question  :  Passages  from  Un- 
published Chapters  by  Richard  Jefferies '  (article  in  Pall 
Mall  Gazette,  November  lo). 
'  Woman  in  the  Writings  of  Richard  Jefferies,'  by  C.  A. 

Foley  [Scots  Magazine,  February). 
Publisher' s  Circular,  December  5. 

1892.  '  Homes  and  Haunts  of  Richard  Jefferies  '  {Pall  Mall  Budget, 

August  25). 
Paragraphs  relative  to  the  Goddard  '  Memoir,'  in  Globe, 

June  II,  and  previously. 
'  The  Unveiling  of  the  Bust '  (articles  in  Saturday  Review, 

March    12  ;    Nature    Notes,    iii.    87  ;    Salisbury   Journal, 

April  2  ;  Sarum  Diocesan  Gazette). 
'  Richard  Jefferies '  {Marlburian,  November  16). 
'  Richard  Jefferies,'  a  poem  by  Mary  Geoghegan  {Temple 

Bar,  January). 
'  Richard  Jefferies,'  a  poem  by  W.  H.  A.  E.  (Rev.  W.  H.  A. 

Ewance,  Twickenham),  in  Wilts  County  Mirror,  April  8. 
Saturday  Review,  March  12. 
The  Marlburian,  February  16. 

1893.  Inlander  Leaflets — No.  i,  '  Richard  Jefferies,'  by  Dr.  S.  A. 

Jones  ;    reprinted  in  pamphlet  form  from  the  Inlander, 

March,   1893  (the  Register  Publishing  Co.,  Ann  Arbour, 

Michigan,  U.S.A.,  pp.  12). 
'  Richard  Jefferies,'  with  a  bibliography,  by  G.  E.  Dartnell, 

{Wilts  Archaeological  Magazine,  June,  pp.  69-99). 
Appeal  for  help  in  restoration  of  Chiseldon  Church   (see 

Morning  Post,  December  23,  and  other  papers). 
'  Wiltshire  Words  :  a  Glossary  of  Words  used  in  the  County 

of  Wiltshire,'  by  G.  E.  Dartnell  and  Rev.  E.  H.  Goddard, 

pp.    xix   and    235    (London  :    Oxford    University   Press, 

1893). 

'  Richard  Jefferies  in  Salisbury  Cathedral,'  with  illustra- 
tions, by  Miss  Thomas  {Literary  Opinion,  April  ;  also 
some  notes  in  same  number). 

'  Round  about  Coate,'  by  P.  Anderson  Graham  {Art  Journal, 
January),  with  illustrations  by  H.  E.  Tidmarsh. 

The  Clique,  June  10  and  17,  and  July  i. 

1894.  '  Richard  Jefferies  :  a  Study,'  by  H.  S.  Salt,  with  a  portrait. 

(London:  Swan  Sonnenschein  and  Co,  1894.  Pp.  viii,  128. 
Foolscap  8vo.,  cloth,  2s.  6d.  ;  Dilettante  Library,  large- 
paper  edition,  1894,  ^os.  6d.  nett,  with  portrait  and  draw- 
ings by  Miss  Bertha  Newcombe.) 

'  Richard  Jefferies  :  the  Man  and  his  Work,'  by  J.  L.  Veitch. 
A  lecture  given  at  the  Salisbury  Museum,  February  5,  1894. 
Reprinted  in  pamphlet  form  from  the  Salisbury  and 
Winchester  Journal  of  February  10  (Salisbury  :  Bennett 
Brothers,  pp.  20). 

'  Richard  Jefferies  and  his  Home  in  Wiltshire,'  by  Bertha 
[  Newcombe  (in  Sylvia's  Journal,  March,  pp.  192-198). 


334       THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 

1894.  '  A  Suggested  Richard  Jefferies  Club,'  letter  signed  '  Charle3 

Farr,  Broadchalke '  (in  Salisbury  Journal,  April  28). 
'  Richard  Jefferies  the  Naturalist,'  by  B.  G.  Johns  (Sunday 

Magazine,  May). 
'  Richard  Jefferies  as  Descriptive  Writer,'  by  Irving  Muntz 

[Gentleman's  Magazine,  November). 

1895.  'The  Poet-Naturalists— III.  Richard  Jefferies.' by  W.  H. 

Jupp,  with  portrait  [Great  Thoughts,  March  23  and  30). 

1896.  '  Thoughts  from  the  Writings  of  Richard  Jefferies,'  selected 

by  H.  S.  H.  Waylen.     (Messrs.  Longmans.) 
'  In  Praise  of  the  Country,'  by  H.  D.  Traill  [Contemporary 

Review,  vol.  lii.,  p.  477). 
Swindon  Advertiser,  December  12. 
'  Richard  Jefferies  :  a  Poem,'  by  W.  Gibson  [Great  Thoughts, 

August). 
'  A  Study  of  Richard  Jefferies,'  by  Charles  Fisher  [Temple 

Bar,  December). 
'  Richard  Jefferies    at  Surbiton,'  by  Charles  G.  Freeman 

[Surbiton  Times). 
'  Idyllists  of  the  Country-side,'  by  George  H.  Ellwanger. 

(New  York  :  Dodd,  Mead  and  Co.) 
Devizes  Gazette,  December  31. 
1898.  '  The   Interpretation   of  Nature,'  by   A.    W.    Keen    [Great 

Thoughts,  September). 
'Richard  Jefferies  '  [Worthing  Gazette,  April  27). 

*  Richard  Jefferies,'  by  Oswald  Crawford  [Idler,  October). 

1900.  '  Richard  Jefferies,'  by  M.  R.  Hoste  [Argosy,  June). 

1901.  '  Richard    Jefferies'    Great    Prayer,'    by    J.    Dunk    [Great 

Thoughts,  July). 

'  Richard  Jefferies  at  Home,'  by  Darby  Stafford  [Badmin- 
ton Magazine,  September). 

'  The  Tender  Mercies  of  a  Great  Naturalist,'  by  Arthur 
Harvie  [Humane  Review,  July  7). 

1902.  Report  of  speeches  at  the  unveiling  of  memorial  tablets 

at  Swindon,  Coate    [North  Wilts  Herald,  November  21, 
1902). 
Academy,  November  22. 

1903.  Devizes  Gazette,  September  3. 

Letter  by  C.  J.  Cornish  [Spectator,  March  21). 

1904.  '  The  Summer  Psalms  of  Richard   Jefferies,'   by  Arthur 

Harvie  [Inquirer,  August  20). 
Bookman,  June. 

1905.  '  Homes  and  Haunts  of  Richard  Jefferies  '  [English  Illus- 

trated, February). 
'  Richard  Jefferies  in  London  '  [Academy,  June  10). 

*  A  Neglected  Romance  '  (review  of  '  After  London  '),  by 
A.  Glutton  Brock  [Speaker,  November  4). 

'  Passages  from  the  Nature  Writings  of  Richard  Jefferies,' 

by  A.  H.  Hyatt.     (Chatto  and  Windus.) 
'Richard  Jefferies,'  by  G.  E.  Dartncll   [Wilts  and  Dorset 

Bank  Annual). 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  335 

1905.  '  The  Bookman  Illustrated  History  of  English  Literature,' 

by  Thomas  Seccombe  and  W.  Robertson  Nicoll. 

1906.  '  The  Faith  of  Richard  Jefferies,'  by  Henry  S.  Salt.     (Lon- 

don :  Watts  and  Co.,  17,  Johnson's  Court,  Fleet  Street, 
E.C.) 

1907.  Review  of  '  The  Story  of  My  Heart '  by  Edward  Thomas 

{Bookman,  October). 

1908.  '  Richard  Jefferies,'  by  T.  Michael  Pope  {Academy,  March 

28). 
'  The  Fiction  of  Richard  Jefferies,'  by  Edward  Thomas 

{Reader's  Review,  July). 
Journal  of  Education,  October. 
No  date.  Article  by  Richard  Garnett  in  '  Dictionary  of  National 

Biography,'  vol.  xxix. 
References  in — 

'  Nature  in  Downland,'  by  W.  H.  Hudson. 

'  Highways  and  Byways  in  Sussex,'  by  E.  V.  Lucas. 

'  Round  About  Wiltshire,'  by  A.  G.  Bradley. 

'  Adventures  in  Criticism,'  by  '  Q.' 

'  Fleet  Street  Eclogues  '  (first  series),  by  John  Davidson. 

'  Friedrich  Nietzsche  :  the  Dionysian  Spirit  of  the  Age,'  by 

A.  R.  Orage. 
'  Windlestraw,'  by  Pamela  Tennant. 
'  A  Short  History  of  Wiltshire,'  by  W.  Francis  Smith. 
'  Life  of  H.  D.  Thoreau,'  by  Henry  S.  Salt. 
'  Wiltshire  Words,'  by  G.  E.  Dartnell  and  E.  H.  Goddard. 
'  The  Book  of  the  Open  Air,'  edited  by  Edward  Thomas.    ^ 


INDEX 


Abercrombie,  Lascelles,  183 

'  After  London,'   20,  47,  60,    121, 

173,  191,  254,  255-262  (detailed 

treatment),  325 
'  After    the    Country    Franchise,' 

290,  291 
'  Agricultural  Life,  The,'  83 
Agriculture,  modern.  See  '  Spirit ' 
Aldbourne,  4,  5,  13,  54,  76 
'  Allotment  Gardens,  On,'  87 
'Amaryllis   at  the   Fair,'   21,   24, 

25,   29,   31,   47,    118,    119,    168, 

172,  173,  263-287,  312,  323,  325, 

328 
'  Amateur  Poacher,  The,'   16,   19, 

20,  24,  36  ;  quoted,  46;  48,  132- 

139    (detailed   treatment),    150, 

T-71.    175.    178,    179.    263,    312, 

313,  320,  322,  325 
'  Among  the  Nuts,'  305 
'  Ancient  Swindon,'  12 
'  April  Gossip,'  290 
Aubrey,  2  ;  quoted  by  JeSeries,  9 ; 

12.  13,  54,  55 

Badbury  (described),  18,  92,  93 
Baden,  Jessie,  64,  65,  75,  96 
Barnes,  William,  280 
'  Beauty    in    the    Country,'    214, 

227-228  (quoted) 
Beecher,  H.  W.,  279 
Behmen,  182 
Besant,  Sir  Walter,  314 
Bevan's  '  Honey  Bee,'  210 
'  Bevis,'  20  ;  quoted,   36,  43  ;   44, 

45,  150,  156,  164-169,  178,  224, 

225,    255-256,    262,    263,    275, 

322 
Bexhill,  171 

Bible,  the,  40,  63,  64,  93,  314 
'Birds   Climbing    the   Air,'    210, 

211 
'  Birds'  Nests,'  297 


336 


'  Bit  of  Human  Nature,  A,'  172 

'  Bits  of  Oak  Bark,'  209,  210 

Blake,  William,  205 

Books  read  by  Jefferies,  40,  41, 
45,  46,  53,  54,  55.  64,  75.  76, 
93,  99,  100,  178,  210,  310 

'  Breeze  on   Beachy  Head,   The,' 

175 

Brighton,  i,  173,  177,  209,  224, 
254,  290 

Broad  Hinton,  10,  13 

Browne,  Thomas,  '  Religio  Me- 
dici,' 203 

Browne,  William,  164 

Brussels,  68-70 

'  Buckhurst  Park,'  306 

Buckland's  '  Curiosities  of  Natural 
History,'  109 

Burderop,  7,  13,  19,  29,  35,  41-42, 
93,  132,  261 

'  By  the  Exe,'  209,  210 

Caesar,  Augustus,  207 

'  Caesar  Borgia,'  64 

Caesar,  Julius,  207 

Carpenter,  Edward,  'Adam's  Peak 
to  Elephanta,'  182 

Catullus,  305 

Cedric  and  Ceawlin,  8 

Cellini,  Benvenuto,  92 

Chiseldon,  i,  5,  8,  13,  18,  23,  64,  93 

'  Clematis  Lane,'  210 

Coate,  20-22.  See  also  307-311 

Coate  Farm,  i,  21-22,  25,  30; 
state  of  prosperity  in  JelTeries' 
infancy,  32  ;  description,  34- 
35  ;  state  in  1865  47  ;  56,  62,  96, 
129,  132,  141,  150,  156,  164, 
263,  264,  290,  291,  297 

Coate  Reservoir,  13,  19,  20,  35, 
39,  40,  42,  123.  165,  256,  261 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor.  206 

'  Coming  of  Summer,  The,'  150 


INDEX 


337 


Cooper,  Fenimore,  41 

'Cost    of     Agricultiiral     Labour, 

The,'  84 
'  Cottage  Ideas,'  298 
Country  Life,  24-30 
'  Country  Places,'  290,  291,  306 
'  Countryside  :  Sussex,  The,'  306 
'  Country  Sunday,  The,'  295,  296 
Crowborough,    i,    171,    209,    290, 

291.  303 
Culpeper,  45 

Darwin,  Charles,  53,  210 

Day  House  Farm,  20,  21,  65,  96, 
140,  281 

Dc  Quincey,  Thomas,  190 

'  Dewy  Mom,  The,'  14  ;  quoted, 
66,  67;  97,  103,  119,  173,  212, 
221,  224, 228-253,  254,  255,  258, 
263,  275,  288,  313,  323,  324, 
325.  328 

Disraeli,  74 

Don  Quixote,  45 

Doughty,  C.  M.,  7,  234 

Downs,  the,  i,  3,  4,  6,  8,  11,  13-17 
(described),  97,  129,  131,  132, 
174,  177,  223,  229,  291 

Draycot  Folliatt,  13,  17,  24,  141 

Drayton,  Michael,  54,  164 

Drummond,  William,  '  The  Cy- 
press Grove,'  203 

'  Early  Fiction,'  53 

Eltham,  119,  172,  209 

'  English  Deer-Park,  An,'  306 

'  English  Homestead,  An,'  83 

Exmoor,  146,  170,  290 

'  Extinct  Race,  An,'  2,  290 

'  Farmer  at  Home,  The,'  83 

Faust,  45 

'  Field    and    Hedgerow,'    38,    55, 

146,  172,  254,  290-312,  325 
'  Field-Faring  Women,'  83 
'  Field  Play,  The,'  209,  225 
'  Field  Sports  in  Art,'  290,  300,  307 
Fortnightly,  the,  84 
'  Fortune,'  75 

Fraser's  Magazine,  11,  83,  84,  91 
'  Future  of  County  Society,  The,' 

84 
'  Future  of  Farming,  The,'  83 

'  Gamekeeper  at  Home,  The,'  19, 
36,  39,  105,  107,  123-128,  129, 
150 
Girls'  Own  Paper,  the,  314 
'  Goddard.'     See  '  Memoir ' 


'  Golden  Brown,'  225-227 
'  Golden-crested  Wren,  The,'  290 
Goring,  i,  171,  290,  313 
Graphic,  the,  10,  107,  iii,  128 
'  Great  Agricultural  Problem,  A,' 

84 
Greek  literature,  46,  55,  64,  178 
'  Greene  Feme  Farm,'  8,   18,   19, 

45,   103-106,  131,  243,267.275, 

288 
Gyde,  Elizabeth,  28-29 
Gyde,  Frederick,  28-29,  264,  281, 

317 

Hardy,  Thomas,  280 

Harrild,  Mrs.,  39,  40,  46,  48,  50, 

55,  56,  60-61,  62,  63,  73 
Harrild,  Thomas,  28,  39,46,  53,  56, 

61  (death),  64 
Hazlitt,  William,  325 
'  Henrique  Beaumont,'  50  (quoted) 
'  History  of  the   English  Squire, 

A,'  84 
'  History  of  Malmesbury,  The,'  64 
'  History  of  Swindon,'  72,  75-76 
'  Hodge  and  his  Masters,'  84,  89- 

90,  150,  245,  275,  288 
Hodson  Bottom,  19,  41 
'  Hours  of  Spring,'  291,   301-304, 

312,  325 
'  House  Martins,'  290 
'  Hovering  of  the   Kestrel,  The,' 


'  Idle  Earth,'  295,  296 
'  Instinct,  Essay  on,'  61 
'  In  Summer-Time,'  96 

'  Jack  Brass  :  Emperor  of  Eng- 
land,' 77 

'  January  in  the  Sussex  Woods,. 
179-180,  210 

Jeflferies,  the  name,  23  ;  the 
family,  24,  25 

Jefferies,  Charles,  29 

Jefferies,  Ellen,  29 

Jefferies,  Henry  James,  29 ; 
'Mark  '  in  '  Bevis,'  164,  258 

Jefferies,  James  Luckett  {a),  12,  25, 
26-27 

Jefferies,  James  Luckett  (b),  25, 
27,  28  ;  his  character,  29-32,  55, 

317 
Jefferies,  John,  25,  264,  317 
Jefferies,  John  Luckett,  27,  28,  62, 

264,  317 
Jefferies,    John    Richard  :    birth, 

I,  29  ;  as  a  skater,  2,  42  ;  bap- 
I  22 


338      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 


tism,  12  ;  his  country,  1-12  ; 
the  Do^^'ns,  13-17  ;  visits  print- 
ing-house as  a  child,  28  ;  his 
appearance,  29  ;  early  surround - 
'"gs,  35-36 ;  early  attitude 
towards  Nature,  36-38  ;  at  a 
private  school,  39  ;  fishing, 
39  ;  home  teaching,  40  ;  other 
teachers,  41  ;  love  of  sport  and 
observation,  42  ;  early  reading, 
45-46  ;  journey  to  France,  46  ; 
to  Liverpool,  47  ;  habits  in 
adolescence,  47-48  ;  early 
writings,  50  et  seq. ;  hand- 
writing, 53  ;  interest  in  anti- 
quity, 53  ;  religion,  56,  57  ; 
seriously  ill,  60  ;  courtship,  65 
ef  seq. ;  at  Brussels,  68-70  ;  oc- 
casional articles,  73-74  ;  '  Me- 
moir of  Goddards,'  and  '  Swin- 
don and  its  Antiquities,'  76-77  ; 
'  Jack  Brass,'  77  ;  '  Reporting, 
Editing,  and  Authorship,'  yj- 
78  ;  Letters  to  the  Times.  80- 
83  ;  '  True  Tale,'  82  ;  further 
magazine  articles,  83-84,  91  ; 
'  The  Scarlet  Shawl,'  93-96  ; 
'  Restless  Human  Hearts,'  93, 
96.  100  ;  marriage,  96  ;  '  World's 
End,'  100-103  ;  '  Greene  Feme 
Farm,'  103-106  ;  early  country 
WTitings,  107-110;  his  prede- 
cessors, 107-109  ;  at  Sydenham, 
III  ;  at  Surbiton,  111-115  ;  im- 
pressions of  London,  1 14-120; 
appearance  and  habits,  121- 
122;  'The  Gamekeeper  at 
Home,'  124-128  ;  '  Wild  Life  in 
a  Southern  County,'  128-132  ; 
'The  Amateur  Poacher,'  132- 
1 39  ;  '  Round  about  a  Great 
Estate,'  139-146;  'Red  Deer,' 
146-149  ;  '  Nature  near  Lon- 
don,' 150-155;  'Wood  Magic,' 
156-164;  '  Be  vis,'  164-169; 
taken  ill  with  fistula,  and  under- 
goes operations,  170  ;  internal 
ulceration,  170;  ha;morrhage, 
171,  172  ;  death  from  chronic 
fibroid  phthisis,  172  ;  effects  of 
chronic  invalidism,  173;  'The 
Story  of  My  Heart,'  177-191, 
194-208  ;  his  mystic  moments, 
181-183;  '  Nature  and  Eternity,' 
191-194,  207  ;  '  The  Life  of  the 
Fields,'  209-214,  217-223  ;  '  The 
Open  Air,'  214-217;  at  Brigh- 
ton, Eltham.  and  Crowborough, 


209  ;   visits    Paris,    209  ;    '  The 
Dewy  Mom,'   224-253  ;    '  After 
London,'    254-262  ;    '  Amaryllis 
at     the     Fair,'     263-289  ;     his 
humour,    287-289  ;    '  Field   and 
Hedgerow,'  290-312  ;  last  days, 
313-314;    supposed    death-bed 
recantation,    314-316;   life   and 
writings  reviewed,  317-328 
'  Jefferies  Land,'  54-55 
Jcfferies,  Richard,  24,  25 
Jefferies,  Sarah,  29 
Jeffries,  John  and  Sarah,  24 
Jeffries,  William  and  Hannah,  24 
Jesse,         Edward,         '  Favourite 
Haunts  and  Rural  Studies,'  108  ; 
'  The  Month  of  May  :  A  Rural 
Walk,'  108 
'  John  Smith's  Shanty,'  83 
'  July  Grass,  The,'  305 
'  Just  Before  Winter,'  299 

Keats,  John,  195,  237,  303 
Kingsley's  '  Prose  Idylls,'  109 
Knox,    '  Ornithological    Rambles 

in  Sussex,'  108 
'  Koenigsmark  the  Robber,'  46 

'  Labourer's  Daily  Life,  The,'  83 
Lamb,  Charles,  325" 
'  Legend  of  a  Gateway,'  211 
Letters  of  Jefferies,  32,  39,  40,  48, 
50,  55,  60-61,  63,  68-70,  70-72, 
123-124,  147,  170-172,  177,  179, 
204,  254 
Liddingdon  Clump,  4,  5,  20 
'  Life^of  the  Fields,  The,'  59,  65-66 
(quoted),  146,  179-180  (quoted), 
209-215,  217-223,  254,  290,  324 
Linnaeus,  210,  297 
'  Locality  and  Nature,'  290 
London,  39,  56,  61,  iii,  114-121, 
195,    209,    212,   213,   256,    275, 
286-287,  290,  317,  321,  328 
London  and  Faringdon  road,  the,  2 
Longman's    Magazine,    153,    191- 

192,  192  et  seq.,  293,  295 
Lubbock's      '  Ants,      Bees,      and 

Wasps,'  210 
Luckett,  Fanny,  25 
Lucretius,  156,  206 
Lyell,  53,  210 

Maeterlinck,  Maurice,  98,  202-203. 

205-206,  211 
Marlborough,  5,  6,  8,  23,  75,  132 
'  Marlborough  Forest,'  47, 107,  109. 

See  also  Savernake  Forest,  5 


INDEX 


339 


'  Masked,'  51 

Maury,  210 

'  Meadow  Thoughts,'  39,  209,  210, 
212,  221,  263,  324 

'  Memoir  of  the  Goddards  of  North 
Wilts,  A,'  76 

Meredith,  George,  228 

'Midsummer  Hum,'  107,  no,  225 

'  Mind  under  Water,'  209,  210,  211 

'  Mixed  Days  of  May  and  Decem- 
ber,' 290 

Moore,  T.  Sturge,  221 

Morris,  '  Butterflies,'  210 

'  My  Chaffinch,'  298 

'  My  Old  Village,'  25,  291,  307-312 


'  Natuue  and  Books,'  290,  296-297, 

299 
'  Nature    and    Eternity,'    191-192 

(quoted),  192-194,  207,  291 
'  Nature  in  the  Louvre,'  237,  290, 

300-301,  307,  324 
'Nature  near  London,'   107,   112, 

114,  117,  150-155,  173,174-176, 

254.  321 

'  New  Pilgrim's  Progress  ;  or,  A 
Christian's  Painful  Progress 
from  the  Town  of  Middle  Class 
to  the  Golden  City,  The,'  96 

New  Quarterly,  the,  83-84,  123 

Nietzsche,  207 

North  Wilts  Herald,  the,  11,  50,  53, 
61,  74,  128 

'  Notes  on  Landscape- Pain  ting,' 
219 

'  Oak  Bark,'  263 

'  Odyssey,'  45 

'  One  of  the  New  Voters,'  215 

'  Only  a  Girl,'  75 

'  Open  Air,  The,'  24,  38,  155,  188, 

215-217,  225-228  (quoted),  254, 

288,  324 
'  Orchis  Mascula,'  290 

'  Pageant  of  Summer,  The,'  209, 
210,  213,  217-219  (quoted),  221, 

254.  324 
Pall  Mall  Gazette,    73,    123,    124, 

128,  132.  1.9,  296,  313,  314 
Paris,  209 
Pater,  Walter,  237 
'Percy's  Reliques,'  45,  178 
Pettigrew,  J.  Bell,  '  Animal  Loco- 
motion ;    or,    Walking,    Swim- 
ming, and  Flying,  with  a  Dis- 
sertation on  Aeronautics,'  210 


'  Pilgrim's  Progress,  The,'  46 
'  Plainest  City  in  Europe,  The,'  210 
'  Power  of  the  Farmers,  The,'  84 
'  Proletariate,   the   Power   of   the 
Future,  The,'  84 

Railway  Accidents  Bill,  the,  91 
Reading,  Jeflferies'.     '  See  Books  ' 
'  Red  Deer,'  146-149,  180,  254 
'  Reporting,  Editing,  and  Author- 
ship,' 77-78 
'  Restless  Human  Hearts,'  93,  96, 

97-100,  224 
Ridger,  Fanny,  25 
Ridgeway,  the,  2,  3,  7,  8,  18 
'  Rise  of  Maximus,  The,'  96 
Rotherfield,  209 

'  Round   about  a  Great  Estate,' 
18,  19,  20,  25,  43,  139-146,  168, 
179.  328 
Ruskin,  John,  151,  213,  221 

'  St.  Guido,'  210,  214-215  (quoted) 
St.  John's  '  Short  Sketches  of  the 
Wild  Sports  and  Natural  His- 
tory of  the  Highlands,'  108 
Salt,  Henry  S.,  314,  315 
Savernake  Forest,  5,  6 
'  Scarlet   Shawl,  The,'    52,  93-96. 

123 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  310 
'  Sea,  Sky,  and  Down,'  174 
Shakespeare,  William,  40,  45,  229, 

237,  244,  248 
Shelley,   Percy  Bysshe,   183,  201, 

206,  303 
'  Shipton  Accident,  The,'  91 
Shuckard's  '  British  Bees,'  210 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip  (quoted),  323 
'  Size  of  Farms,  The,'  83 
'  Some  April  Insects,'  291,  295 
Somerset,  209 

'  South  Down  Shepherd,  The,'  174 
Spenser,  Edmund,  234 
'  Spirit    of    Modern    Agriculture, 

The,'  87 
'  Sport  and  Science,'  22  (quoted), 

209 
'  Spring  of  the  Year,  The,'  1 50 
Standard,  the,  84,  151 
Stevenson,  R.  L.,  178,  221 
'  Story  of  My  Heart,  The,'  14,  39, 
43,   56   (quoted),   57-59.   67,   79 
(quoted),  92,  in,  131,  161,  169, 
173,  174,  177-208,212,224,237, 
254,    255,    263,    278,    280,    285, 
303.    305.    312,    313.    314.    322. 
323.  324 


340      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 


'  story  of  Swindon,'  91 
'  Strange  Story,  A,'  51 
'  Suez-cide  ;  or.  How  Miss  Britan- 
nia Bought  a  Dirty  Puddle  and 
lost  her  Sugar  Plums,*  96 
'  Summer  in  Somerset,'  306 
'  Sunlight  in  a  London  Square,' 

210,  213,  221-223  (quoted) 
'  Sunny  Brighton,'  255 
Surbiton,  iii,  123,  156,  290,  319 
Swinburne,  A.  C,  93,  178,  228 
Swindon,  i,  11,  25,  32,  41,  76,  96, 

105,  III 
Swindon  Advertiser,  the,  27,  55,  74 
Sydenham,  40,  56,  61,  67,  72 

'T.  T.  T.,'  p.  51 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord,  182-183 
Thomson,  James,  237 
Thoreau,  22 

'  Thoughts  on  the  Labour  Ques- 
tion,' 296 
Time,  103 

'  Time  of  Year,  The,'  290 
Times,  the,  80-83,  296,  318 
'Toilers  of  the  Field,"  45,  84,  85, 

85-89,  124,  290 
Traherne,  Thomas,  188,  303 
'  Traits  of  the  Olden  Time,"  52 
'  True     Tale     of     the     Wiltshire 
Labourer,  A,'  82 

*  Unequal  Agriculture,'  84 

Venice  in  the  East  End,'  210 
'  Village  Churches,'  107,  109-110 
'  Village  Organization,'  84 
'Walks  in  the  Wheatfields,'  291, 
294-295,  297,  298 


'  Water  Colley,  The,'  209 
Waterton's    '  Essays   on    Natural 

History,'  107-108 
Waugh,       Edwin,       '  Lancashire 

Sketches,'  134 
Wayland  Smith's  cave,  2,  3 
White's  '  Selborne,'  53,  107,  125; 

Jefferies'  Introduction  to,    146, 

172-173,  290,  299,  300,  313 
White  Horse,  2,  3  ;  the  smaJl,  10, 

51 
Whitman,  Walt,  189,  207,  313 
'  WTio  will  Win  ?'  5 1 
'  Wild      England,'      sub-title     of 

'  After  London,'  q.v. 
'  Wild  Flowers,'  325 
'  Wild  Life  in  a  Southern  County,' 

2,  17,  20,  21,  42,  106,  107,  108, 

128-132  150 
Wilts  and  Gloster  Standard,  65 
Wiltshire  (refuge  of  Iberians  and 

Celts),  5;  23,  53,  54,  76.  80-83. 

209,  233 
Wiltshire  and  Berkshire  Canal,  2, 

20,  42 
'  Wiltshire  Labourer,  The,'  295 
'  Winds  of  Heaven,'  291,  306,  312, 

324 
Wither,  George,  164 
'  Women  in  the  Field,'  84 
'  Wood  Magic,'    19,    36   (quoted), 

37,  150,  156-164,  178,  321 
Wootton  Basset,  2,  9,  23,  54,  75, 

132 
Wordsworth,   William,    183,    205, 

227 
'World's  End,'  67,  100-103,  116, 

258,  267  ^   ., 

Wroughton,  9,  13 


BIILINC   AND   SONS,    LT1>.,    PKINTERS,    GUILUKOKD. 


C«ortf«p}ul3p  &  S<m  L^ 


340      THE  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  JEFFERIES 


'  story  of  Swindon,'  91 
'  Strange  Story,  A,'  5 1 
'  Suez-cide  ;  or,  How  Miss  Britan- 
nia Bought  a  Dirty  Puddle  and 
lost  her  Sugar  Plums,'  96 
'  Summer  in  Somerset,'  306 
'  Sunlight  in   a  London   Square,' 

210,  213,  221-223  (quoted) 
'  Sunny  Brighton,'  255 
Surbiton,  iii,  123,  156,  290,  319 
Swinburne,  A.  C,  93,  178,  228 
Swindon,  i,  11,  25,  32,  41,  T6,  96, 

105,  III 
Swindon  Advertiser,  the,  27,  55,  74 
Sydenham,  40,  56.  61,  67,  72 

'T.  T.  T.,'  p.  51 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord,  182-183 
Thomson,  James,  237 
Thoreau,  22 

'  Thoughts  on  the  Labour  Ques- 
tion,' 296 
Time,  103 

*  Time  of  Year,  The,'  290 
Times,  the,  80-83,  296,  318 
'Toilers  of  the  JFiel'd,'  45,  84,  85, 

85-89,  124,  290 
Traherne,  Thomas,  188,  303 
'  Traits  of  the  Olden  Time,'  52 
'  True     Tale     of     the     Wiltshire 
Labourer,  A,'  82 

'  Unequal  Agriculture,'  84 

Venice  in  the  East  End,'  210 
'  Village  Churches,'  107,  109-110 
'  Village  Organization,'  84 
'Walks  in  the  Wheatfields,'  291, 
294-295,  297,  298 


'  Water  Colley,  The,'  209 
Waterton's    '  Essays   on    Natural 

History,'  107-108 
Waugh,       Edwin,       '  Lancashire 

Sketches,'  134 
Wayland  Smith's  cave,  2,  3 
White's  '  Selborne,'  53,  107,   125; 

Jeflferies'  Introduction  to,    146, 

172-173,  290,  299,  300,  313 
White  Horse.  2,  3  ;  the  small,  10, 

51 
Whitman,  Walt,  189,  207,  313 
'  WTio  will  Win  ?'  51 
'  Wild      England,'      sub-title      of 

'  After  London,'  q.v. 
'  Wild  Flowers,'  325 
'  Wild  Life  in  a  Southern  County,' 

2,  17,  20,  21,  42,  106,  107,  108, 

128-132  150 
Wilts  and  Gloster  Standard,  65 
Wiltshire  (refuge  of  Iberians  and 

Celts),  5;  23,  53,  54,  76.  80-83. 

209,  233 
Wiltshire  and  Berkshire  Canal,  2, 

20,  42 
'  Wiltshire  Labourer,  The,'  295 
'  Winds  of  Heaven,'  291,  306,  312, 

324 
Wither,  George,  164 
'  Women  in  the  Field,'  84 
'  Wood  Magic,'    19,    36   (quoted), 

37,  150,  156-164,  178,  321 
Wootton  Basset,  2,  9,  23,  54,  75, 

132 
Wordsworth,   William,    183,    205, 

227 
'World's  End,'  67,   100-103,  Ji<5, 

258,  267  J    , 

Wroughton,  9,  13 


i! 


on. LING   ANU   SUNS,    LTD.,    1-KINTERS,    GUILUKOKD. 


UNIVERblii     BERKELEY 


AR  27  1918 

CI  i6 

AUG  30  \92^ 


50Tn-7,'16 


U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


CDHbDDDSlfi 


1 


23987« 


